


A Burden for Broader Shoulders || A Kid!quisitor Fic

by delfiend



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Spoilers, Gen, Kid Inquisitor, Trespasser, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7278583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delfiend/pseuds/delfiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Samahl left the Free Marches in the dead of night with his sister Elgara, he honestly had no idea what to expect. The two of them had been traveling around for as long as Samahl could remember, always looking for a clan to take the two of them in after their parents' mysterious death. It's not that they never ran into any clans, it was the fact that Elgara was a fully-fledged mage, and most clans had already met their allowed quota of two mages. The two of them had been living with Clan Lavellan for close to five years, with Elgara as the Keeper's First and Samahl keeping his magical abilities secret from the clan. Elgara helped train her little brother when she thought the two of them were away from prying eyes, but one day, they weren't careful enough. She and Samahl fled the clan, fearing Sam would be exiled, heading south to the rebel mages of Ferelden where Elgara thought her brother would be safe and well looked after. Samahl didn't know what to expect when they reached the Conclave, but it was certainly not what happened. Marked by strange magic and Thedas' last hope, young Samahl must take on responsibilities far too great for even the most capable of adults, so as to see peace restored no matter the cost</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Da'Len

There was an utter silence to the air that Solas hadn’t felt in what seemed an eternity. For days, the constant thrum of the Breach, as it threw out its glowing green tendrils into the sky and took hold, expanding and coughing out rifts down to the earth as it did, had filled the ears of every soul at Haven. Solas peered out the window of the small cabin, spotting the Breach in the sky. It was still there, still looming, still threatening, but it was stilled, silent, subdued. And it was all thanks to the small elven boy who had the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

His name was Samahl. _Laughter_ , Solas thought to himself with a pang of utter guilt and sorrow _._ When he had fallen from the Fade, hand marked with a wound crackling fiercely with unimaginable magic, every last survivor at Haven was quick to place blame on the unconscious and dying boy’s shoulders. It was only after the painstaking efforts of Solas and the alchemist Adan that the boy was brought back from the brink of death to a more stable form of unconscious. Regrettably, Solas hadn’t been around to see the boy wake. He was ordered by Seeker Cassandra to go with Varric Tethras and a handful of soldiers to combat the rifts opening near to Haven. He had gone reluctantly, fearing for the small eleven boy left in the hands of the vengeful Left and Right Hands of the now late Divine. But much to everyone’s surprise, the young boy had survived not only Seeker Casandra and Leliana, but also the demons that filled the way from Haven to the rift Solas found himself and the others fighting demons at. When the demons were all slain, Solas had gotten gently to the boy’s level, explaining as calmly as he could his theory to close the rift with the mark on the boy’s hand. Samahl was fearful, Solas knew that by looking into his big frightened eyes, but he was as calm as a boy can be when faced with such heavy circumstances. With Solas’ hand guiding the boys, Samahl reached his hand up to the rift, cringing as the connection between the small tear in the Veil and the strange mark was made, and flinching as the rift burst into a flash of energy, dissipating in the air and leaving nothing behind. The rift was sealed. And so the Breach, too, could be sealed.

The boy sighed now in his sleep, turning from his back to his side, drawing his knees to his chest, hands clutching his pillow by his face, sandy brown shaggy hair falling into his eyes. Solas stood slowly from his chair in the corner, checking for the umpteenth time on the mark on the boy’s hand. It had stilled, much like the Breach, but it remained, and Solas could still sense the thrum of magic contained within the jagged mark. Solas’ eyes drifted from the boy’s small hand to his face, still chubby with boyish youth, free of the _vallaslin_ that marked the older boy’s in his culture, cheeks nose and ears all flushed pink with good health, mouth parted ever so slightly as he breathed easily, small movements of utterances the script of a dream. Solas longed to find himself in those dreams, seeing the boy as he saw himself, unmarked, free from the heavy destiny that had only just begun to weigh down upon him.

The door opened with a quiet creak of old hinges, and Varric entered, tip-toeing inside and shutting the door as delicate as that flap of a butterfly’s wings. Solas could tell by the sullen expression on the cheeky dwarf’s face that the news was not good.

“She hasn’t been found?” Solas inquired, voice low as not to disturb the sleeping boy.

Varric shook his head. “Odds are she died in the explosion, like everyone else at the Conclave.” He looked to Samahl, face falling even further. “What are we going to tell the poor kid..?”

Solas had no answer. From what Samahl had told Leliana and Cassandra in the dungeons upon waking, he was at the Conclave with his older sister Elgara, who had taken Samahl from their clan in the dead of night and traveled all the way from the Free Marches to the Conclave in hopes of finding her young brother safety and training with the rebel mages. As it were, the Dalish only allowed for two mages to exist in one clan at a time. From what Samahl had been willing to reveal and from what he had shown in the valley helping to fight, Elgara was the First to Clan Lavellan’s keeper, making for two mages in Clan Lavellan; yet Samahl possessed an incredible gift for magic, which he had been suppressing and keeping secret, training only with his sister to keep his abilities under control. From what Solas gathered from between the lines, the Keeper had learned of Samahl’s gift of magic, and planned to exile the boy from the clan, as was the Dalish way. Throughout the day that had he awoken and helped subdue the Breach, young Samahl had asked for nothing but to see his sister. Leliana and Cassandra had promised to help look for her, but they too knew in their hearts that Elgara was as good as dead. And now, with time to breathe, the search had been made for Samahl’s older sister, and had come up short.

“I’ll tell him,” Solas finally sighed.

“You don’t have to be the one to tell him, Chuckles…”

“Someone ought to.”

“He’s just a boy…”

“Yes, but a boy who has proven the key to sealing the Breach, and all the rifts it has thrown out across Thedas. Not to mention who is being exalted as Andraste’s Herald of all things. He deserves to know the truth, whether it is amiable or not.”

Varric was silent for a while, eyes trailing across the small boy’s features, face expressing all the sympathy in the world. “Bring him down easy…”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing anything less,” Solas replied, voice dipping into the same sympathy Varric was conveying with his eyes. “Where’s the Seeker?”

“She’s arguing with the Chancellor. Seems the guy still wants to clap poor Sam in chains and put him on trial.”

“Let me know if the situation turns from our favor, Varric.”

“Will do.” Varric nodded, more for himself than anything, hesitating a moment before turning reluctantly for the door, leaving the elf and the boy once more.

It was another hour before Samahl stirred. When he did, Solas was waiting, eyes fixed on his hands as he sat in his chair, his posture suggesting he may or may not have taken a nap at some point during the hour. The movement from the bed immediately drew Solas’ full attention, and he sat up straight, standing as Samahl stretched languidly, eyelids still drooping shut despite his efforts to keep them open, mouth gaping in an unabashed yawn. Two small fists came to rub at his heavy eyes, back arching in feline fashion as his legs kicked to find footing and see the rest of him upright. After a short, ungraceful struggle, Samahl sat with his back to the headboard, hair plastered to half his face and sticking up in all manner of directions, eyes quickly turning from glazed to confused as they took in his surroundings.

“Solas…?” The boy’s voice was quiet, somewhat frightened, seeking assurance like a child’s hand reaching for that of their parent’s.

“How are you feeling, _da’len_?” Solas brought the chair over to sit beside the bed.

“Fine,” Samahl shrugged. “What happened..?”

“You passed out after attempting to seal the Breach. We brought you back to Haven.”

“Attempting..?” The boy’s sharp mind missed nothing. “So… the mark… it didn’t work..?”

“It worked, just not to the extent that we were hoping for. The Breach has stopped growing, as did the mark on your hand. For now, we are safe. Should we find a way to increase the power of the mark, we should be able to seal the Breach for good.”

Samahl’s eyes were drawn to his left hand, where the jagged mark began to hum and glow with its strange power; the glowing did not seem to hurt the boy, however, as it had done before when the mark had been expanding, along with the Breach.

“How does that feel?” Solas prompted, calm but internally ravenously curious. “Does it pain you as before?”

Samahl shook his head. “No it’s—… it’s not quite pain. More like suppressing a spell. Like when you go to toss a fireball, but then hold it back because someone gets in the way of your aim. That sort of tingly feeling. It doesn’t feel good, but I wouldn’t say it hurts.”

Solas nodded, at least somewhat appeased by the answer. The elf was so busy pondering the answer the boy had given, it took him a minute to notice the change in the boy’s expression. He had become suddenly quite somber, tears glistening in his eyes.

“What’s wrong Samahl..?” Solas inquired, unable to keep the hint of surprise from his voice.

“My sister,” He said, voice a little choked, which the boy hesitated a moment to correct. “If she had been found, she would be here, wouldn’t she? Waiting for me to wake? Have they been looking for her, Mister Solas…?”

“They have, _da’len_ …”

“She’s dead then, isn’t she…?”

“Most likely…”

Samahl nodded, the struggle to suppress his overwhelming sadness physically noticeable: his hands tugging on one another for comfort, his lower lip clench down under his teeth as it began to tremble uncontrollably, his eyes blinking fast and rapidly as tears built up without warning, his breathing becoming quite uneven as the sobs began without sound. Solas didn’t hesitate to open his arms to the boy. Samahl ducked into the older elf’s embrace, Solas’ arms having hardly come around him before the tears started, heavy and broken. It was all Solas could do to keep the tears from spilling out his own eyes; he, too, had experienced the sort of loss Samahl now had to go through. He could only hope the boy would recover from the hole ripped into his heart.

Solas let the boy cry for a long while before gently pulling him from his chest, holding him at arm’s length. “Now you listen to me, _da’len_. You’re safe here, with me, with Cassandra, Varric, with all of us here at Haven.”

“B-B-But Ms. Seeker s-said… the p-people… hate m-m-me…”

Solas shook his head. “No longer. You stopped the Breach from growing. They like you now. They’re calling you the Herald of Andraste.”

Even in his grief, the boy managed a baffled furrow of his brow. “But she’s a prophet of the Maker, the _shems_ ’ god…”

“Yes. And the humans now believe you to be the chosen of their own prophet. Whether their claims hold any truth to them is not important. What’s important is that you don’t reject the claims. Be their Chosen One, _da’len_. They will keep their Herald safe; I cannot say for certain if they would do the same for young Samahl. Do you understand?”

Samahl nodded, and Solas could tell by the sobering look in his eyes that he _did_ understand; the boy was sharper than Solas first gave him credit for. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Solas found himself smiling; genuinely, unabashedly smiling.

“Will you be safe, Mister Solas?” The boy’s face with brimming with concern, eyes wide like fear. “You are an apostate; that’s considered illegal.”

“I do not know, _da’len_ ,” The smile was wiped from his face in an instant. “Cassandra has been accommodating thus far, but I do not know for sure…”

“Will—… will you be safe if the Herald of Andraste declares it be so..?”

Solas found himself smiling once more at the small knowing grin that ghosted onto Samahl’s face, and he couldn’t help but give the boy’s hair an affectionate ruffle. “ _Ir serannas, lethallin_.”

Samahl giggled, ducking to escape the hand messing up his wild hair, still rubbing lingering tears from his eyes.

“When you’re ready, _da’len_ ,” Solas spoke as he withdrew his hand. “The Seeker waits for you in the chantry.”

“No,” Samahl replied cheekily, sliding off the bed, still sniffling quite a bit. “She waits for the Herald. Right?”

Solas shook his head a bit. “Not the Seeker. She would keep you safe no matter what. Herald or no Herald.”

“Just like you, Mister Solas..?” The boy was halfway to the door, but paused to ask this one particular question, eyes glimmering with an anxiousness as he awaited his answer.

“ _Dareth shiral, lethallin._ ”

Samahl hesitated, but then nodded to himself, seeming appeased. “ _Dareth shiral, ma ghilan_.”

Solas was stunned for a moment at the boy’s choice of words, even as Samahl was out the door and out of the elf’s sight. _Ma ghilan._ _My guide_. Solas felt his heart ache something awful, so much so he physically clenched at his chest. He would stay. Even if the Templars turned against him, even if Cassandra herself sentenced him to death, he would stay. For Samahl, he would do anything. _Almost_ anything. His heart ached again, he turned his head, shut his eyes, prayed the day would never come. When his eyes opened, he was once again Solas, the apostate, Samahl’s _ghilan_. The people outside began to cheer. Solas turned his eyes out the window once more, at the Breach. Then he retreated from Samahl’s quarters, off to find a quiet spot where he could be alone for the time being, just as eager as he was nervous to see how the next chapter of Samahl’s unfortunate journey would unfold.


	2. A Heart of Gold in a Gilded City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samahl and company prepare to travel to Val Royeaux to meet with the Chantry Clerics actively refuting the Inquisition, and once there, have a number of unexpected encounters.

“Come on Sam! You have to be ready! Shield up!”

“Yes Seeker!”

Samahl hefted the wooden sword in his hand, struggling to keep his shield up, taking a ready stance. Cassandra took a similar stance with her wooden sword and shield, giving the boy a nod. Samahl judged the Seeker’s stance before swinging his sword at her legs. His attempt was quickly deflected by Cassandra’s sword, which swung quite suddenly towards Samahl’s face. His eyes got huge as he lugged his heavy shield up to block the blow, staggering back as the sword and shield made contact.

“Watch yourself, Sam!” Varric called—half amused, half petrified—from off to the side with Cullen and Solas.

With Varric’s warning, Samahl managed to catch the Seeker’s sword once more with his shield, but was promptly knocked to the ground from the blow. Tossing the shield aside, he rolled skillfully to one side as the blade sought to make contact once more, ending the roll in a crouch, sword held close to his side, ready to lash out.

“That’s not a proper fighting stance,” Cassandra huffed, dropping her guard.

“This is the stance all the clan hunters use…” Samahl defended weakly.

“But we’re not _hunting_ , Sam. We’re _fighting_. There’s a difference.”

Samahl let his sword fall from its ready stance, pointed end hitting the ground as he hung his head. “Sorry, Seeker…”

“You kept your shield up,” Cullen praised as he came over with Varric and Solas, giving Samahl’s hair a quick ruffle. “That’s better than _half_ my soldiers can do.”

“Really?” Samahl giggled.

“Really!” Cullen grinned, reaching out his hand to Cassandra, who handed over her wooden training sword. “How’s about you and I have a go! Just a bit of sparring. Sword on sword.”

“Okay!” Samahl chimed happily, pulling his sword back into a proper hold. “Ready..?”

“Fight!” Cullen growled, going easy at first, but quickly having to pick up his pace as Samahl lashed out blow after blow.

Varric shook his head in amusement as he watched, speaking to Cassandra. “Sword and shield isn’t the only way to fight, ya know. I’m sure Leliana could show him a thing or two with daggers.”

“And his magic training is coming along quite well,” Solas added. “He’s gained an exceptional amount of control over his gifts, and is beginning to learn to use them safely.”

The worry made itself evident as a scowl on the Seeker’s face. “None of that will help if things go south in Val Royeaux.”

“We’ll all be there with him, Seeker,” Varric assured.

“Besides, he survived our trip to the Hinterlands to meet with Mother Giselle, the center of the mage-templar fighting,” Solas added; deep down, he too was worried, but he also was the only one who knew Haven would not be safe forever. The Inquisition had to act, not wait around for a boy to learn to defend himself against all odds.

“I know,” Cassandra sighed, unable to help but let slip a smile as Cullen disarmed Samahl, and instead attacked the boy with a merciless bout of tickling. “We leave tomorrow at first light. I pray the Maker will keep us all safe.”

“That makes two of us,” Varric huffed, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Hey kid! Let’s go see if we can’t track down a bite to eat!”

Samahl had ensnared Cullen by two little fists of the man’s curly hair, holding him at arm’s length so that the commander cringed at the slight tugging. “One second Mr. Tethras!!”

The boy turned a menacing eye to Cullen. “Promise you won’t tickle me anymore if I let you go?”

“On my honor!” Cullen managed to keep from squeaking as he answered his captor.

“Then you’re free to go.” Samahl let go of his hold on the man’s hair, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. He was just about to run over to Varric and the others when two hands suddenly tickled at his ribs, nearly throwing him back to the ground in a fit of giggles.

“Hey!!”

But the commander was already a dozen feet away, acting as innocent as he pleased. Samahl couldn’t help but smile; Cullen had been hugely intimidating when Samahl first met him, but now he was like the big brother the boy never had.

“You gotta keep an eye on curly there, big fella,” Varric winked at Samahl as the boy met up with him and they headed back to the camp. “He’s the vengeful sort, ya know.”

“He’s a good fighter, and an even better friend. I’m glad the Inquisition has him on our side.”

“You and me both, Sammy.”

The day was rather short but sweet, as Samahl was finding most days at Haven were. He spent most of that time training with someone, be it Cassandra or Solas, and when he wasn’t training, Samahl was doing everything he could to help out. He gathered elfroot and other plants for alchemist Adan, chopped and gathered firewood for Harritt the blacksmith and for the hearth at Flissa’s tavern. There was one day he was out in the woods with Varric shooting Bianca the crossbow, and Samahl shot and took down a ram with a single arrow. Everyone at Haven ate extra well that night. Needless to say, after all the Samahl got into during the day, he was usually already in bed, sound asleep, when someone came to check on him at nightfall. Be that as it were, you can imagine Cassandra’s surprise when she entered the homely cabin that nightfall to find it empty, bed and all. She went to Solas fist, before she panicked.

“Solas, have you seen young Sam?” The concern edged into her already commanding voice.

“Can’t say that I have,” Solas replied, noting the concern. “Is he not in his quarters?”

Cassandra shook her head. “I don’t know where he’d be. Is it possible he’s run away?”

Solas shook head firmly. “No. Even if he possessed the desire to run, where would he go? He has no family, and his Clan has already sent word to Josephine that they no longer regard him as one of their own. He must be around here somewhere.”

“I’ll get Varric and Leliana to help us look around Haven. Perhaps he’s just reading in the chantry basement again.”

“Or perhaps he’s gathering plants for Adan. I shall check the surrounding area to see if I can’t find a trace of him.”

The two of them nodded in agreement before setting off to search for young Samahl. Cassandra had hardly gotten word to Varric and Leliana before half of Haven was helping to search for their Herald. The hubbub woke the other half, and they too lent a hand in the search. Solas, however, was far away from the din as he stepped silently through the powdery snow that glistened like a million tiny crystals in the moonlight. It didn’t take the elf long to find the small footsteps in the snow and follow them to their source.

“ _Lethallin_ ,” Solas greeted quietly so as not to disturb such a still night.

Samahl was laying on his back in the snow on the edge of a clearing in the sparse woods. His arms crossed behind is head to keep it from settling in the snow and muffling his ability to hear clearly, but the rest of him had become soaked as the heat from his small body melted the white around him.

“El and I used to lay under the stars every night,” Samahl said, voice barely above a whisper. “And when the canopy was too thick to see through the tree tops, she and I would climb up above the tallest of branches so as to get a view of the night sky. _You see those stars, Sam?_ she used to say. _Those are the same stars our ancestors used to gaze at. And the same stars ma and pa used to look up at too. Everyone sleeps under the same stars, da’len. Whether they are elvhen or shemlen or durgen’len, it does not matter. Be they in great golden palaces or in the grass, from a thousand years ago or a thousand years into the future, it does not matter. The stars have always been what they are, and always will be._ But Mister Solas… if I cannot see the stars that were once where the Breach is now, does that mean they are no longer there?”

“No, _da’len_ , the stars remain. The Breach simply blocks our view. Your sister was right: the stars have always been what they are, and always will be. Breach or no Breach.”

“ _Ma serannas_ , Solas.”

“Of course, _lethallin_.” Solas hesitated to disturb the boy’s peace under the stars, but he remembered the Seeker’s worry. “We should get back to Haven. The night grows late, and we must rise early for our journey tomorrow.”

“You are right, of course,” Samahl sighed, getting easily and noiselessly to his feet. “I just wanted to see the stars. You can’t see them well from Haven; too many campfires and candles. I wanted to feel what it felt like to lie under the night sky with my sister again.”

Solas walked alongside the boy as they headed back to Haven. “And did you feel that way once more?”

Samahl shook his head woefully. “Everything is different now. Even star-gazing is different.”

“ _Ir abelas, da’len._ ”

Samahl let out a small sigh through his nose, finding himself leaning into Solas as they reached the training ground and the gates to Haven. Solas put his arm around the boy’s small shoulders, feeling the weight on his side grow heavy as Samahl struggled to keep his eyes open.

“Go to your quarters, _da’len_ ,” Solas instructed softly, nudging the boy in the right direction.

“ _On nytha,_ Solas,” Samahl yawned as he drug his feet and rubbed at his eyes, heading to his quarters and his bed.

“ _On nytha, da’len_.” Another smile came to Solas’ face, and this time he knew the cause: how long had it been since he had spoken so much of his native tongue with another? Even the Dalish Solas had encountered on his travels had known very few phrases of Elvhen, mainly traditional greetings and phrases, but little of conversational value. Samahl was once again proving himself to be quite an exception to what Solas expected anymore.

The thought passed from Solas’ mind as he heard the sound of a dozen voices calling for the Herald of Andraste. The elf sighed to himself before forcing the walk to find Seeker Cassandra and inform her the elven boy had been brought to bed safe and sound.

Once everyone calmed down over Samahl’s disappearance, the entirety of Haven fell asleep in a manner of minutes. The moment the slightest suggestion of sun began to peak over the horizon, Solas found himself getting roused from a peaceful slumber, the Seeker the one doing the rousing.

“I don’t believe it’s quite yet morning, Seeker…” Solas grumbled as he blinked awake and sat up in bed. He spotted Varric and Samahl by the door, both leaning on one another, both falling asleep where they stood.

“We must get going, morning or not.” Cassandra was wide awake and just as resolute as ever.

“Let me guess,” Solas mused only slightly bitterly as he pulled on a shirt. “You didn’t see so much as a wink of sleep last night, did you Seeker?”

Cassandra tsked defensively. “The sooner we meet with the Chantry in Val Royeaux and get this whole thing behind us, the sooner I’ll rest easily.”

“So be it,” Solas replied as he straitened as clothes, holding onto his jawbone necklace as he had done every morning for as long as he could remember. “Let’s get going.”

The journey to Val Royeaux was a long one, made longer by Cassandra’s unwavering refusal to allow a game of I-Spy to commence, despite Varric’s multiple attempts. Samahl slept most of the way, sharing a horse with Solas, the boy surprisingly accustom to the sway of an animal beneath him as he slumbered. And because no one wished to disturb Samahl, the conversational topics were nonexistent between the Seeker, the apostate, and the dwarf. But eventually, the four reached the gates of Val Royeaux, and Samahl was fully awake and lively by the time the horses were stabled and the stable boy paid to look after them.

“Wow..! _WOW!!_ ” Samahl couldn’t pry his eyes from the city. “I’ve never seen someplace _sparkle_ like this one does!”

“Yes, well, that’s Val Royeuax for you,” Cassandra replied in a pursed manner, unconsciously fussing over the boy’s wild shaggy hair. “It’s rather fitting. A gilded city full of gilded people.”

“Gilded, Seeker?” Samahl dodged her fussing hands, an eyebrow shooting up on his forehead in a gesture of confusion.

“It means on the outside they seem all perfect and lovely, but on the inside they’re very much rotten,” Varric answered as he shuffled his hand through the boy’s hair, carefully undoing all the Seeker’s hard work. “Remind me to give you a lesson in vocabulary every once and a while, big fella. It’ll do you good.”

“Absolutely, Mister Tethras!” Samahl beamed, doing all he could to keep from dashing ahead and into the city, fidgeting with pure excitement.

The four of them were crossing into the city, Samahl’s eyes fixed upwards at the intricate architecture, when he heard the soft scream of a lady. His eyes came down to find a woman and a man, both dressed in ridiculously baroque clothes, faces hidden behind masks that displayed carefully carved expressions of pleasantness. Instinctually, Samahl looked to Solas for an explanation, but it was Varric who spoke up.

“Just a guess, but I _think_ they know who we are.”

“And they…. are afraid of us..?” None of it made sense to Samahl. They were the heroes, weren’t they? Closing the Breach? Saving the world?

“They’re afraid of the Inquisition,” Cassandra stated with a more than usual amount of vehemence in her tone. “They’re afraid of the idea of Andraste’s Herald being a part of the Inquisition. They’re afraid we’re just going to do more harm than good.”

“And worst of all, they’re afraid that we’re in the right,” Solas added philosophically.

As they passed from the bridge to the city’s gates, the four of them were met with an Inquisition scout who saluted with a fist over her heart, taking a knee.

“My lord Herald,” she greeted.

Samahl was only partially listening as the scout and Cassandra exchanged a quick few words. His mind had suddenly become troubled. It didn’t make sense to him, why anyone would fear the Inquisition, let alone oppose it. The Breach was a problem. The Inquisition was going to solve that problem. That should make people _glad_ , if not overjoyed. Certainly not… whatever they were feeling here at Val Royeaux.

“Send word ahead in case we’re… delayed.” Cassandra nodded to the scout as they departed.

“Delayed why..?” Samahl asked, suddenly painfully aware that he should have been paying attention.

“They’re greeting us with a mob,” Cassandra huffed. “And Templars.”

Samahl felt his legs turn to ice beneath him. “B-But—… the Templar _hate_ mages..! They are _killing_ mages….!!”

“Calm down, Sammy,” Varric comforted quickly. “No one knows you’re a mage. And even if they did, they would think twice before even looking at you the wrong way. You’ve got the whole Inquisition backing you at Haven, and us three backing you in the here and now.”

Cassandra spoke up as her mind worked quickly to handle the situation. “Varric, Solas, take up positions up high in the walkways around the market. If things go south, we’re going to need you in strategic positions to cover our escape.”

The dwarf and the elf nodded, heading without hesitation to do just that.

“Wh-Wh-What do I do, Miss Seeker…?” Samahl gulped, power blue eyes wide with fear.

Cassandra placed a reassuring hand on Samahl’s shoulder. “You just be yourself, Sam. Chances are, nothing will happen and we’ll be perfectly safe. But just in case, we need Varric and Solas where they can be the most help. Understand?”

Samahl nodded, taking a minute or two to calm himself back down. “Okay. I’m ready.”

As they walked towards the market, Cassandra began to mutter aloud.

“None of this makes sense… Seeker Lucius would never side with the Chantry…”

“Seeker..?” Samahl inquired. “Like you?”

“Yes,” Cassandra answered, voice taking on more patience as she addressed the boy. “He took over the order when Seeker Lambert died. He’s not the sort to do this sort of thing, coming to the Chantry’s aid…”

“I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” Samahl offered quite genuinely. “Just like when you thought I caused the Breach.”

Cassandra looked to the poor boy with a measure of pity. “I hope your right, Sam…”

As they drew closer, the sound of the angry crowd that awaited them grew from faint to filling up their ears, and soon loomed into view. A Chantry cleric stood above them all, giving a speech against the Inquisition. In all his life, Samahl had never seen so many people all gathered at once, except perhaps at Haven. Except here, they were angry, shouting, drawing from one another’s emotions to strengthen their own. It was like its own form of magic, Samahl thought, but one the Chantry and Templars didn’t recognize as such. He would have run from it all if Cassandra hadn’t been behind him, both blocking his escape and providing a looming sense of protection and safety. Samahl began to weave through the crowd timidly, but he hadn’t gone more than three people deep when he and Cassandra were explicitly noticed, and the crowd parted to let them through to the cleric.

“You wonder what will become of Divine Justinia’s murderer. Well, wonder no more!” The cleric warbled above the subdued din. “Behold! The so-called ‘Herald of Andraste’! We say… this is a false prophet!! The Maker would not send a child in our time of need, let alone an elven boy!!”

“We did not come to hear you slander the Maker’s will!” Samahl put on his Herald face, which was much braver and bolder than his plain-old-Samahl one. “We came only to talk in peace! To discuss the _real_ threat to Thedas: _not_ the Inquisition, but the Breach!!”

The boy wasn’t so sure where his reserves of confidence and bravery came from, but he knew when he saw the cleric point off to the side that he had run out of both. Her words faded into the background as Samahl’s quickening heartbeat flooded his ears. The Templars. Shining armor, hardened faces, iron fists, mage-butchering swords, marching towards the crowd and up the cleric’s stage.

“The Templars have returned to the Chantry!” The cleric raved. “They will face this ‘Inquisition’ and the people will be safe once more!”

It was a good thing no one expected a response out of Samahl, because his mouth had suddenly turn as dry as the Hissing Wastes. All he could do was watch as the Templars mounted the stage… and punched the cleric unconscious! The gasps from the gathered crowd said it all; everyone was just as shocked as young Samahl. The Templar who had been beside the cleric went to take a knee and help the woman back to her feet, but the man who had led the Templars on stage stopped him.

“Still yourself. She is beneath us!”

Samahl’s voice was tearing angrily from his throat before he had time to think his words through. “And just what do you think you’re doing!?”

The man glared at Samahl with the utmost contempt. “Her claim to ‘authority’ is an insult. Much like your own, _boy!_ ” He spat out the word like poison in his mouth.

Cassandra placed herself between the man and the elven boy as the Templars dismounted the stage. “Lord Seeker Lucius, we must speak with—”

The Lord Seeker turned his contemptuous glare on Cassandra. “You do not address me.”

Cassandra came to a sudden halt, voice climbing an octave in her shock. “Lord Seeker..?”

The man began to berate the Seeker for creating the Inquisition, for allowing Samahl to be exalted to the claim of Andraste’s Herald. Samahl was only partially listening. His eyes drew uneasily to the ranks of Templars that seemed to grow out of nowhere; he was shaking where he stood. He wondered if anyone noticed. The cleric groaned as she came to on the stage, her sisters having gathered to pray for her recovery. Despite her best efforts, Cassandra could not get through to the Lord Seeker, and he declared Val Royeaux unfit for protection as he took all the Templars from the city and marched out its gates. The crowd dispersed with the spectacle having come to a close. Samahl still stood rooted to his spot in the market. It was difficult to process everything that happened. He only roused from his thoughts as Cassandra’s hand fell onto his shoulder, Varric and Solas having regrouped with them in the market circle.

“You were very brave, Sam,” she smiled despite her obvious indignance over the Lord Seeker. “The way you addressed the cleric, the Lord Seeker… that took a lot of courage.”

“But it was for nothing,” Samahl sighed, distressed. “The Chantry still hates us and now the Templars hate us too.”

“Don’t take it personally, Sammy,” Varric offered something of a reassuring smile. “They’re just afraid. People do some stupid stuff when they’re afraid.”

“Let’s get back to Haven…” Samahl mumbled dejectedly, walking back around the circle towards the gates of the city.

 _Zoom!!_ An arrow whistled by and thudded into the ground just past Samahl’s feet, causing the poor boy to nearly jump out of his own skin. Cassandra was there in an instant, shield up, as Varric found a note tied to the arrow.

“Well, it looks like you made _some_ friends today, big fella,” He squinted at the note. “Seems the Friends of Red Jenny want to meet with you. The details are all here.”

“And that’s not all,” Solas added with a little suspicion to his tone. “It appears there’s a Circle Mage just over there that’s trying to flag us down.”

Intrigued, Samahl headed over to the man, who seemed relieved to have been noticed.

“You’re the Herald of Andraste, are you not?”

“That I am. And who, may I ask, is wondering..?”

“I have an invitation for you,” The man handed a letter to Samahl, which Cassandra promptly took and read, much to the man’s discomfort. “From First Enchanter Vivienne. I hope you will be able to attend.”

The man bowed ever so slightly, and then was on his way without another word. The four headed for the gates once more, Samahl’s mood having bettered.

“First the ‘Friends of Red Jenny’ want to talk, whoever they are, and now a First Enchanter? Is that as important a person as it sounds to be..? Is it like the First of the Keeper..?”

A quiet, polite voice interrupted Samahl’s babbling. “If I could have a moment of your time..?”

The four turned to find an elven lady approaching. Samahl felt a thrill of familiarity before it was squashed by the lack of _vallaslin_  on her face, replaced by suspicion and curiosity alone.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona..?” Cassandra sounded incredibly surprised.

“Leader of the mage rebellion,” Solas added with a degree of surprise as well. “Is it not dangerous for you to be here?”

 _Grand_ Enchanter! It sounded much more important than _First_ Enchanter, Samahl thought. Or… did it? He shook the thought from his head as the Grand Enchanter addressed him.

“I’d heard of this gathering, and I wanted to see the fabled Herald of Andraste with my own eyes. If it’s help with the Breach you seek, my dear boy, perhaps _my_ people are the wiser option.”

“You’d help us then?” Samahl didn’t bother to keep the ring of hope from his voice.

The Grand Enchanter let slip a small, fond smile. “We’d be more than happy to _discuss_ the consideration of our help, at the very least. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe. Come, meet with the mages. An alliance could help up both, after all.”

She turned to take her leave. “I hope I see you there. _Au revoir_ , my lord Herald.”

The four watched the Grand Enchanter leave their sight before Samahl broke into a grin.

“Well whatdya know?” He beamed. “Looks like we’ve _finally_ drawn enough attention to ourselves to be worth the mages’ while.”

“We’ll see,” Cassandra sighed heavily. “But first, let’s meet with these ‘Friends of Red Jenny’ and ‘Madame de Fer’ before we head back to Haven. At this point, we could use all the allies we can get.”

As they headed once more the gates, Varric slung an arm around Samahl’s shoulders, pulling him into something of a headlock as they walked.

“Hey, great work today Sammy,” He chuckled. “What do you say to a game of wicked grace when we finally put our feet up at Haven?”

“Wicked grace..?” Samahl frowned, content to not resist the headlock.

“Yeah! It’s a card game. You make bets, too. It’ll be fun!”

“I better not here you trying to involve young Sam in any _gambling_ , Varric!!” Cassandra snarled from her spot at the lead.

“What, me?” Varric replied innocently. “I wouldn’t dream of it!”

Samahl did his best to smother his giggles, not wanting his friend to get in any more trouble than he was usually in.


	3. Bad Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samahl has a bad dream. Poor baby :(

It had been a long day in Orlais, first with the cleric and the Templars, then meeting with Sera who represented the Friends of Red Jenny, and finally Vivienne’s party. All three events had left Samahl not only mentally and physically exhausted, but in his own way, troubled. He didn’t want to talk about it with anyone, so he kept up appearances, put on his Herald face, smiled and made small talk as the company of six travelled in the gathering evening back to Haven. He didn’t want to talk about how he was feeling, not until he understand what _it_ was. He wasn’t quite sure just what he was feeling. Anger? Guilt? Fear? Was it even a bad thing to be feeling? The boy was glad when the company arrived at Haven, and all promises of fun and games gave way to the pressure of exhaustion. Scarcely had the company put their feet back in Haven's soil before they put their feet up and prepared for bed. But not Samahl. He alone sat in his quarters, wide awake, pacing the creaky wooden floor with his always-bare feet. The hour grew ever later, and still Samahl paced, back and forth, counting his steps, once and a while walking along a single crack in the boards, brow creased in an unsettled frown. Then, suddenly, he paused, head tilted ever so slightly as to let his shaggy hair fall from his ear, allowing him better hearing. The night was a still as the glassy waters of a midnight lake. Samahl stole a thick fur blanket from his bed, wrapped it around his thin frame, and pattered outside. It was snowing, soft and silent, the glimmering flakes drifting from the heavens and landing without a sound all around the boy. Samahl’s feet crunched the snow hollowly as he took every step with a measured amount of care, tugging the blanket tighter around himself as a minute gust blew through the small structures of Haven, battering the boy from several directions. Despite the unwelcoming weather, Samahl pushed on, reaching the shut gates of Haven, leaning all his weight into the massive oaken doors to see them opened. They budged with much protest, providing just a large enough crack for Samahl to suck in his stomach and slip by out into the night-veiled woods. And he kept walking.

Samahl lost track of the time he had been walking, putting more and more distance between himself and Haven, the woods growing thinner as the landscape turned harsher, angles sharper, more pronounced, more sudden. And then, without warning, he just stopped, collapsing to his knees in the snow, the blanket laying loosely on his shoulders. He looked to his hand unconsciously, where the mark was housed, suddenly fizzling angrily, much more pronounced than he recalled, the veins in his hand having taken on the green coloration.

“Does it hurt…?”

Samahl let his head roll forward, chin to his chest, as a hand fell light but powerfully present on his shoulder. He breathed in deeply the scent of dew and smoke and fragrant white flowers, reaching out with his unmarked hand to take hold of the one of his shoulder, squeezing it in desperation.

“I can’t describe it…” Samahl answered weakly.

“Can’t, Sam? Or won’t?”

Samahl was silent, not because he didn’t have an answer, but because he simply wanted to hear that voice, capturing one’s attention like someone’s dying and fervent words, yet somehow light, cheery, able to put the boy at ease just to hear it.

“I’m sorry, _da’len_. I should have been there. I should have protected you.”

“You _were_ protecting me, from the clan, from tradition… you couldn’t have known this would happen…”

Samahl looked up, eyes locking onto the sky-blue eyes set within a sea of freckles on rosy cheeks, golden hair braided loosely but strands falling softly like the snow over her face. Elgara smiled, the expression Samahl missed the most. When she smiled, it was obvious to anyone why her namesake was the elven word for _sun_ …

“Ma and Pa would be proud of you.”

The tears came unwillingly to Samahl’s eyes, spilling hot and heavy down his cheeks; he blinked them away as rapidly as he could try, wanting nothing to break his view of his sister’s face, the face he’d never see again.

Her free hand reached up, thumb wiping away the tears from Samahl’s cheeks in that gentle yet firm fashion that only a mother could manage. “Enough of that. Save your tears, Sam. No amount of tears can change what has happened.”

“I can’t do this alone, El…!” Samahl sobbed brokenly, numb to the elements freezing him over.

“You’re not alone, _da’len_.” She placed her hand over his heart. “You were never alone.”

Samahl covered her hand with his own, feeling his own heart beat quick beneath. He breathed in deep to feel it slow, but the mark on his hand flared up, like it had when he had assaulted the Breach. The pain was unbearably hot, like freshly forage metal on bare skin, but equally as cold, like death itself. The moment flashed only for a brief instant before Samahl was sitting bolt upright, having fallen asleep in the corner of his quarters. He sat there a long while, feeling his heart race in his chest and in his throat, breathing heavily in an attempt to calm down after the dream. Slowly, he got to his feet, shuffling across the floor towards his bed, his legs wobbly from having sat on them oddly while he slept. A quick glance out the window confirmed his suspicions: it was still the middle of the night, which meant he still had hours before dawn. He crawled back in bed, pulling his disheveled sheets and blankets up around him, burrowing his head into his pillow.

No matter how comfy Samahl made himself, his eyes simply would not droop. They stared intensely at his poor view of the opposite wall, grainy from the utter dark. His mind fixed obsessively on his dream, on his sister Elgara, on the pain he had felt from the mark. His inability to sleep made him suddenly unbearably anxious, and he kicked off all his covers in a panic, sitting bolt upright and breathing shallowly. He turned his scattered attention to the mark, which decided to crackle and light up on his hand, giving the room around him an eerie green glow. He shut the hand, but the light still poured from small gaps in his fist before the mark died down and left the room dark once more. He sat there in the dark, the only sound that of his breathing, his mind buzzing with a wakefulness that caused him such distress; then Samahl got to his feet, drew his fur blanket around himself, and headed out the door of his quarters.

It wasn’t snowing, like he had dreamt. Haven was perfectly still, aside from the torches that burned bright by its gates, where two Inquisition soldiers stood on guard. Samahl didn’t mind the men; he wasn’t headed for the woods, not now. Instead, he turned and walked up the snow-dusted path to Solas’ quarters, the snow like a million tiny needles to his bare feet. The boy hesitated outside the door of the elf’s quarters, wondering with a guilty conscious if he should go through with disturbing his friend. He was through the door before he had made up his mind.

“Solas…?” His whispered voice sounded utterly loud in the hush of the night, starling Samahl back to silence.

He waited…. No response.

Samahl thought about backing out the door and returning to his own quarters to try and sleep, he really did. But he dreaded the thought far more than he dreaded Solas’ wrath upon being awakened. Carefully, the boy tip-toed further inside, eyes adjusting enough to spot his friend fast asleep in his bed.

“ _Lethalin…_?” Samahl offered softly, tilting his head as he checked for signs of waking. Nothing.

With his words having no effect, Samahl braved a poke at the elf’s shoulder, which made Solas stir ever so slightly and mumble something elven that Samahl understood to be _Leave me alone…_

Samahl replied in elven, raising his voice just above a whisper. “ _Solas, I can’t sleep…_ ”

The elf’s eyes were blinking open in an instant, something like surprised shock on his face as he turned his head to focus on Samahl.

“ _Da’len_ …” The surprise disappeared, leaving only a tiredness in its wake.

Samahl blinked, trying to assess if his friend was angry or not; he slipped back into the common tongue. “I had a nightmare… now I can’t sleep…”

Solas rubbed a hand into his eyes as he swung his feet over the bed’s edge, yawning as he sat there, swaying ever so slightly as he struggled to stay awake.

“Did you encounter any spirits, Samahl..? Did anything try to tempt you or possess you..?”

“No,” Samahl answered with an edge of relief in his quiet voice. “It-…. It was El…”

Solas sobered up, looking to the small boy with all the sympathy in the world. He patted the bed beside him. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

Samahl nodded a little reluctantly, clambering up onto the bed and sitting beside his older friend, kicking his legs as he hesitated to think about his dream.

“It’s alright, _lethallin_ ,” Solas comforted, eternally patient.

Samahl nodded, gulping before beginning in a shaky voice. “It was snowing…”

“Heavily..?”

Samahl shook his head, gaining more confidence the longer he spoke. “No, it was soft. Lazy little snowflakes falling to the ground. It was calm, peaceful; like a white blanket muffling all of Haven…”

“Doesn’t sound so nightmarish to me,” Solas teased lightly.

Samahl fidgeted. “No, it wasn’t. But I kept walking, walking away from Haven. I ended up somewhere, in the Frostbacks, I think. And then I just… sort of fell to the ground. I was tired, I think.”

The boy unconsciously looked to his marked hand as he recalled what happened next in the dream. “I-I-I don’t think I want to talk about this anymore…”

“As you wish, _da’len_ ,” Solas caught the boy’s stare at his small magic-scarred hand, feeling a stir of dread deep in his chest. “What of your sister?”

“She was there,” Samahl sighed brokenly. “She was just as I remembered her. Her hair like sunshine, so well-kept but somehow so messy… eyes like the cloudless blue sky, deep with that clingy sadness that plagued her for so long when I was younger, that still refused to disappear entirely… her voice was the same, too, capturing your attention like they would be her last words, but somehow like a lullaby, putting you at ease…” He looked to Solas, finding his friend listening intently. “She wasn’t always like that, you know.”

“Wasn’t she..?” Solas prompted.

Samahl shook his head. “Sometimes, I would dream beside her, but it wouldn’t be my dream. It would be hers. She only ever had one dream… She was young, my age I think. She was always in this meadow of wildflowers, blooming in thick and the loose petals catching in the breeze. She was skipping, laughing the way I’d only heard her laugh precious few times. There’s a voice, but I can never make out where it’s coming from, speaking elven: _The white flowers, da’len. Your mother needs the white flowers._ El picks up a huge armful of the white flowers with little yellow centers. _Can I put some in baby Sammy’s hair?_ she asks. She giggles, Solas. She giggles and she presses her face down into the armful of flowers, her cheeks turn all pink. And then the dream disappears, like she doesn’t want to relive what happened next. I asked her about it once. She wouldn’t talk about it. She wouldn’t talk about that day.”

“May I ask a personal question, Samahl..?” Solas ventured hesitantly.

Samahl pondered the request before giving a slight nod.

“What happened to your parents..? Who were they..?”

Samahl gulped, hands clasping to one another for comfort. “I don’t know. El never told me what happened. I can’t remember; I was too little. But El would tell me about them every chance she got, about all the stuff she learned from them; she didn’t want it all to disappear along with them. They were… researchers, El called them. Not Dalish. Though they _were_ Dalish once, I think. I remember their faces a little, or at least I remember them having _vallaslin_ of some kind. We traveled, mostly around the Arbor Wilds, a little up into southern Orlais. My parents spent their time with their faces in books, old books, the smell of which I can never forget: musty, old, like wet bark, but somehow cleaner, crisper, more inviting. They never spoke the common tongue. Or, El says they didn’t. El picked up bits a pieces of the language when they visited human towns, mostly to trade old books they had read for ones they hadn’t. El did a lot of translating for them, she said. They were mages, too, my parents. Powerful mages, brilliant in their execution, unmatched in their will. To them, magic was a part of life. A part of living, like breathing. They trained El; that’s why she was so talented….”

“What sort of books interested them..?” Needless to say, Solas’ interest was piqued.

“Elvhenan,” Samahl answered matter-of-factly, a yawn escaping him. “Anything and everything about the ancient elvhen, they got their hands on and they poured over. They kept these little leather-bound journals with all their notes; when they weren’t reading, they were referencing their journals, trying to find what dots connected. El said they also preached that history books were no better than stories, mazes of narrative built around the truth. You needed a lot of resources and hard work to uncover the truth, the _real_ truth. That’s what they were trying to do: find out the truth about Elvhenan, what life was like, why it fell, who they gods really were.”

“Did they?”

Samahl shrugged. “We lost all their notes and books when we lost them. El won’t tell me what happened. She says its best I never find out, though she told me that I should return to the Arbor Wilds one day, see if I can’t uncover the truth in the Fade. Solas? Would you…. would you take me there one day, when I’m ready..?”

“Of course, _lethallin_ ,” Solas promised earnestly. “But first, it is late. We need to get you back to bed.”

“But I’m not…” Samahl let out a huge yawn, eyes drooping. “I’m not tired, remember..?”

“Don’t worry, _da’len_ , I will stay with you until you fall asleep.”

“Okay… _ma serannas_ , _ma ghilan_ ….”

Solas got up from his bed, watching as Samahl slid down and onto his feet, rubbing at his eyes as he followed behind the older elf, taking a sleepy hold on his hand. Solas smiled slightly, walking Samahl back out into the cold, wrapping the blanket tighter around the boy’s shoulders as they headed for Samahl’s quarters.

“Solas..?”

“Yes, _da’len_?”

“What happened to your family…?”

Solas fell silent. “There’s only me now, _lethallin._ ”

Samahl yawned again, nodding a little. “There’s only me now too…”

Solas felt his heart ache, not only for himself, but for the boy alone in the world. They reached Samahl’s quarters in silence, entering and heading for the bed. Samahl climbed in, grabbing fistfuls of covers and blankets and pulling them up over his shoulder, rubbing his head deep into his pillow. Solas sat at the foot of the bed, watching the boy, knowing it would only be a matter of minutes before he would be fast asleep.

“Solas..?”

“Yes, _da’len_?”

“Even though I don’t have a family anymore, I’m glad I have you…”

The pain in his chest was enough to render Solas mute for a full minute. “Get some sleep, Samahl.”

His words fell on deaf ears, as Samahl was already sleeping. Solas sighed heavily, getting slowly to his feet and heading back to his own quarters. It was he who ended up lying awake the rest of the night, burned by thoughts of the tragic little boy and his family that was no more. It plagued him long into the morning, and would likely plague him the rest of his days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so much longer to put up!! I'm pretty much working at my job nonstop Fri - Mon so when I get home its just eat, shower, and sleep til work again. But I'm going on vacation for a while, and I've been trying to do some plotting for this fic in my precious little free time, so I should be able to get out a lot more chapters in a short while! Let's hope everything goes well for lil Samahl!!


	4. Not a Hero, Just a Boy

The day had been rather uneventful for young Samahl. The sun shined bright despite the cold, neither Cassandra nor Solas had come to him for training, and Varric had promised to tell him adventure stories later that night. At first, the undisturbed peace and quiet had cheered Samahl to no end, but the longer it drug on, the more suspicious the boy grew of it, and the more little details he began to pick up on. Cullen wasn’t out training with his soldiers. Cassandra wasn’t bashing her usual amount of things to pieces. Leliana wasn’t with her scouts. And Samahl had a sneaking suspicion it was his fault. His mind was lingering on these thoughts as he lugged an armful of freshly chopped firewood to the tavern. He was hardly through the tavern door when a voice rung in his ears.

“Think fast Sammy-Whammy!”

Samahl froze as a shoe flew over his head, flying through the topmost of his unkempt hair. Sera laughed uproariously in a fit of snorting giggles, retrieving her shoe.

“Oh man! Ya shoulda seen the daft look on your little face!” She snickered, hopping around on one leg as she pulled the shoe back on, grabbing Samahl in a headlock and grinding her fist into his head in a rough sort of affection. “Sorry short-stack, ya know I can’t resist givn’ you a run for yer little britches!”

Samahl smiled sheepishly, taking the noogie like a pro. “Oh don’t worry, Sera. I’m going to get you back good one of these days! Just you wait!”

“Oh yeah?” She placed her fists onto her hips defiantly. “Is that a bet then?”

Samahl turned a little bit pale. “N-No…”

Sera rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun.”

“No I’m not fun, I’m Sam.” The boy grinned cheekily as the joke sank in with his friend, who broke into another fit of giggles.

“Oh you’re clever, ain’t you?”

Samahl carried the firewood over beside the tavern hearth, setting it with the rest. “I like to think so, yeah.”

Flissa smiled at the small boy, setting aside the mugs she was cleaning. “Thank you, Sam.”

“Any time, Ms. Flissa!” Samahl beamed like a little ray of sunshine, anticipating the cookie that was slipped his way.

“For your trouble.” Flissa winked.

Sera gave the boy a jealous glare as he headed for the door, nibbling on the cookie, Samahl giving his friend an impish smirk as he passed. “See you later, Sera!”

“Yeah yeah, you little shite you.” She shook her head, unable to help but smile.

Once the distraction of Sera and the tavern was behind him, Samahl’s mind turned back to his missing friends, and the fact that whatever had driven them into hiding _had_ to be his fault. He made up his mind and headed for the Chantry, deciding that if his friends were anywhere, it was together, in the war room. The world around him blurred into a familiar haze as he headed up to the Chantry building, the cookie in his hands the only thing his attention was focused on. That is, until he came to the oaken doors of the building and spotted someone loitering about he hadn’t seen before.

“Hi,” Samahl greeted, a little hesitant but friendly all the same.

“Hi,’ the person greeted, clearly unsure as to why they were being addressed by the small boy. “I’m uh… I have a message, for the Inquisition, but I can’t seem to get anyone’s attention.”

“Oh,” Samahl smiled brightly. “It’s okay. All the important people are busy today, I think. But I can take the message for you.” He added with a little hesitation: “I’m the Herald, by the way. Of, uh, of Andraste. That Herald. You never know, there might be other Heralds; don’t want to be mistaken…”

“Oh.”

Samahl nodded sagely, then stuck out his hand. “The name’s Samahl. Most people around here call me Sam, though, and that’s fine.”

“Krem,” He took a hold of the boy’s hand. “I’m with the Bull’s Chargers. We’re a mercenary group, headed by The Iron Bull. He sends words that Tevinter mercenaries are gathering on the Storm Coast. He offers the information free of charge. He wants the Inquisition to come to the Storm Coast, see the Charger’s in action. We’re the best you’ll find.”

“Oh, fantastic!” Samahl’s eyes got wide in wonder. “We’ll be there as soon as I can find everyone!”

Krem smiled, though a little baffled by the small elven boy. “Alright. Just-… just make sure your superiors hear about this, okay?”

“Yes sir!” Samahl gave a salute and a smile. “Safe travels back to the Storm Coast!”

“Thanks.”

With that, Samahl headed inside the Chantry and Krem went on his way. The doors were not easy to open, and Samahl had to lean all his weight into them and shove as hard as he could to squeeze inside. As soon as he did, the door shut heavy and loud behind him, and the Chantry’s stagnant silence fell over him. And then the silence was broken as voices were raised angrily in the war room, the words muffled by the oaken door that separated the room from the rest of the Chantry. Samahl felt a swarm of butterflies erupt in his stomach.

“You quite aright, my dear?” Vivienne looked up from a book she was reading and came over to Samahl’s side. “You’re looking a little pale. Gaunt, too. Have you been eating alright? Sleeping?”

“I’m fine, Miss Vivienne,” Samahl offered weakly, his attention still pulled towards the war room door. “Honest…”

“I’m just worried about you, dear,” she sighed ever so slightly. “No one should have all this responsibility thrust upon them. Especially not a child.”

“I’m eating,” Samahl held up what remained of his cookie. “I’m mostly sleeping.”

“And your training?” She took on a worried look. “With your magic. Is Solas teaching you to avoid possession?”

Samahl nodded. “He says we have to strengthen my will before it’ll be safe to try very many spells. But we practice practical magic, the Dalish kind.”

“Good. You must be careful. Magic is not a toy, my dear boy.”

“I know,” Samahl nodded. “My sister El always said using magic was like sparring with the Fade. If you’re strong enough to win, you can utilize the magic found there. If not, the Fade takes you as its prize. She always told me I had to constantly train so that I would always be strong enough to win; she said losing would mean a fate worse than death.”

“Your sister sounds like a very wise woman,” Vivienne’s face fell slightly. “I’m sorry.”

Samahl nodded, quickly diverting the subject. “What are they on about in there..?”

Vivienne looked to the war room, where more muffled voices erupted angrily. “If I had to guess, I’d say the matter of closing the Breach, and more specifically, which party to broker a deal with to do so.”

“The Templars made it clear they want nothing to do with the Inquisition.”

“Yes, but the rebel mages are far more of a risk than its worth.”

“If the Breach isn’t closed, that’s the end of all things. I think we can afford to take risks to prevent the end of the world.”

“Spoken like a true hero, my dear boy,” Vivienne looked to Samahl. “Be careful: you start acting like a hero, and you’ll end up one.”

Samahl frowned, baffled. “What’s wrong with being a hero..?”

“Heroes are never the happy ones, Samahl. The heroes are the ones that give up everything so that the rest of the world can be happy.”

Samahl fell silent, the words weighing heavy on his mind. “But if I’m not a hero, Miss Vivienne, than I’m no one. I’m just Samahl, the boy without a home and without a family…”

“That’s the big choice, my dear: to sacrifice it all and be the hero, or to keep what little you have and be no one at all.”

He fell silent once more. “Miss Vivienne, what do you think I should do? Do you want me to be nobody..?”

“I want you to be happy, my dear boy,” she answered, voice awfully melancholy. “I want you to seal the Breach in the sky and walk away from this Inquisition. Don’t try to continue to be of use when you could find some happiness on your own.”

Just then, the war room door bust open, and out came Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine, all arguing away. Samahl took off to meet them, and their arguing died down to a hush as they spotted the boy approaching.

“What’s wrong?” Samahl’s face was burdened with all sorts of concern.

“It’s nothing…” Cullen said quickly, a stutter edging into his voice.

“It’s _something,_ ” Samahl pressed. “I’m the Herald; you can’t just… _leave_ me out of important discussions..!”

They all looked to one another uneasily, but it was Cassandra who spoke up, calm and bold.

“Sam, you may be the Herald, but you’re twelve years old.”

Samahl puffed out his chest indignantly. “I’ll be thirteen before the season’s over!”

“The point _is_ , you’re still just a child, and a child doesn’t need to be at every consul meeting we ever hold.”

“But our goal is to close the Breach,” Samahl was trying to maintain his calm and maturity despite his rising frustration. “ _I’m_ the one who’s gonna close it. But I can’t do that without the mages or the Templars, or _someone_ to put more power into this mark!” He flashed his hand, which crackled as if on command. “I should have a say in who that someone is going to be!! Solas said the mark almost killed me once; if we use it wrong, it may almost kill me again. And this time, it might succeed. And you think I don’t belong at the discussions about it!?”

“He has a point,” Josephine added with a drawl of reluctance.

Cullen cut in defensively. “But you _know_ he would never chose to work with the Templars! He’s an apostate mage with no training! Of course he’s afraid of them!”

“I’m right here!!” Samahl practically snapped. “And we’ve already talked with the Templars. They’ve proven that winning their support is going to be no easy task. We haven’t even spoken with the mages, aside from the Grand Enchanter who _invited us_ to _peacefully_ talk with her and her mages. I don’t see why I can’t go to Redcliffe before we come to a decision.”

Cassandra eyed the boy sternly. “Leave us, Sam.”

“But—!!”

“You’ve made your point clear.” She was already marching him towards the door. “Now leave us to discuss this matter further.”

“It’s not fair!!”

“We’ll talk later. Now go.”

Samahl glared at the Seeker, who blocked his way back into the Chantry. Mood having turned heavily foul, Samahl made a point of stomping his way away from the Chantry, hearing the sound of the huge oaken doors shutting as he did. An idea was forming rapidly with the catalyst of vengeance on his brain. He quickly found Varric and put his plan into action.

“Mr. Varric, I need you to accompany me.”

Varric noted the storm cloud of a face the boy was sporting, but said nothing on the matter. “Where to, big fella?”

“The Stormcoast. The Inquisition has a potential ally there awaiting to discuss the matter further. As the _Herald_ I thought I would be a suitable negotiator.”

Varric smiled, as _negotiator_ was one of the words he had taught Samahl the other day. “You know, the Storm Coast is a pretty dangerous place…”

“Don’t worry. Solas is coming too. And Sera. We’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Well in that case, count me in Sammy!”

“Good,” Samahl nodded sharply, his mind working overtime behind his scowl. “Get word to the horsemaster that we’ll be needing our mounts saddled immediately. I’ll fetch Solas and Sera, and we’ll be on our way.”

“As you command, Lord Herald,” Varric saluted, knowing very well that he was helping to ease a bruised ego, heading for the stables.

The four of them were on the road to the Storm Coast in no time. Sera had needed absolutely no convincing to accompany Samahl, and Solas, though opposed to the sudden trip, decided he’d rather be alongside Samahl no matter the irrational reason had inspired trip, than to leave him solely in the hands of Varric and Sera. He was reaffirmed in his decision as they rode.

“Good one!” Varric laughed raspily. “How about this: how does the Waking Sea say hello..?”

“I dunno, how?” Sera giggled in anticipation for the punchline.

Varric put on the straightest face he could muster. “It doesn’t. It just… _waves_!”

The two of them dissolved into laughter which almost spooked their horses into bolting; Solas rolled his eyes, his patience wearing quite thin, but even Samahl was smothering his uncontrollable chortling from where he sat in front of Solas, sharing the horse with the elf.

“Must you tell such awful jokes the entire way to the Storm Coast, master Tethras?”

“Until we run out of them, chuckles.”

Solas groaned. “Somehow, I don’t believe that will happen…”

Sure enough, Varric and Sera managed to keep the puns coming for just about the entire ride through the Hinterlands to the Storm Coast. Solas was caught allegedly smiling at one of two of them, but he denied it without end. It wasn’t until the company reached the Storm Coast, several days later, that Varric finally questioned the nature of Samahl’s quest.

“So Sammy, what exactly are we doing out here in the first place..?”

“I talked to a man at Haven,” he answered, mood having improved considerably since leaving Haven behind. “He was part of a mercenary group, said there were Tevinter mercenaries here on the coast. He wanted the Inquisition to come and see his band in action; I think they want to help out our cause.”

“For a price, no doubt,” Varric added.

“We can afford it,” Samahl sighed. “Adan’s potions have been selling in our Ferelden markets like you wouldn’t believe, and Harritt has been selling his more intricate pieces of armor and weaponry in our Orlesian markets; the way they sell, you’d think he was the only blacksmith in all of Thedas.”

“Is that why you’ve been running so many errands lately?” Solas inquired, impressed with the boy’s head for numbers.

Samahl nodded. “The Dalish always scoffed at the _shems_ for their use of money, said it caused all sorts of greed. But it’s not so different from the exchange of favors, as is the Dalish way. It’s just… well, a means of measuring how big of a favor something was. Harritt makes armor for the people who need armor, and they repay him with coin, which he can use to receive the favors he needs, when he needs them. For instance, right now, the Inquisition needs the mercenaries to help them restore peace in Ferelden, and to find who started the Breach.”

Samahl let his monologue die on his breath, eyes blinking involuntarily against the constant onslaught of rain that plagued the Storm Coast. For Samahl, the place invoked a lot of memories.

“El and I came ashore here, on our way to the Conclave…” He said out loud, though his voice soft. “Just for a night; we continued down the way to Lake Calenhad, but first we came ashore here… gathered supplies…”

The boy began to wander towards the beach, his footing quite sure even on the steep rocky slopes. He had hardly taken a dozen steps when a rumbling screech tore through the air and shook the ground. A dragon swooped by overhead, wings beating the air into a wild wind as it quickly grew nondescript in the foggy distance, its cry still echoing as it sounded once more.

“ _Fenedhis_!” Samahl breathed in shock, his eyes glued on where the beast had once been, then turning quickly to his friends. “Did you see that!?”

“That’s one big beasty…” Sera didn’t sound too happy.

“Dragons!” Samahl gasped in wonder. “ _Ir mirthadra_ …!”

The boy’s attention was drawn away from the fantastic creature as the sound of steel on steel reached his ears, sharp and nearby. Curious, Samahl leaned back on the slope, one hand dragging on the ground as he slid skillfully down the remainder of the cliff-side, running to get to the beach and see the source of the fighting. Indeed, the boy reached the rocky shores of the Waking Sea to find a battle commencing just down the way. Though eager to help, Samahl’s better judgement kept him rooted to the spot as he watched, his friends hurrying to his side, weapons drawn.

“Vints,” Varric huffed.

“Then those must be the mercenary group,” Solas added.

With the help of Solas, Varric, and Sera, the mercenaries were aided in their slaughter of the Tevinters, while Samahl maintained a safe distance away from it all, per Solas’ instruction. When the fighting came to an end, Samahl edged his way closer to those who were left, tip-toeing around the bloodied and burned bodies around him.

“Chargers! Stand down!" A booming voice called out, starling Samahl. " Krem, how’d we do?” 

The voice that answered was familiar. “Five or six wounded chief. No dead.”

The booming voice lowered its volume just a tad. “That’s what I like to hear. Let the throat cutters finish up then break out the casks.”

Samahl joined with his friends as a huge mountain of a man approached them, the likes of which had never seen. He _definitely_ wasn’t an elf, Samahl thought, and he couldn’t possibly be a human, nor a dwarf. The boy decided that no matter what the giant man was, he had friendly eyes, or _eye_ , rather, and stuck his hands on his hips as a playful smile came to his face.

“Well well well, what do we have here?” He crouched down, but in doing so was still taller than Samahl. “You must be the little Herald Krem was telling me about.”

“That’s me,” Samahl put on his most serious of Herald faces. “I come to represent the Inquisition on the matter of discussing a potential alliance.”

“Is that right?” The man straightened back to his full looming height, still smiling. “Well, I don’t discuss alliances before I’ve had a good drink. Come, take a breather. Your friends are free to help themselves to the casks.”

Varric and Sera were on the drinks like flies on honey before the words were out of the man’s mouth. Solas refrained from such indulgence, milling about on the beach for a while before realizing he hadn’t seen Samahl. He looked to find the boy at the water’s edge, skipping stones. He went to join his young friend.

“Does something trouble you, _lethallin_?” He asked quietly.

Samahl shrugged, throwing a stone and watching it skip the water twice before sinking beneath the waves. “Solas, I know this may sound… rude, I think… but what _is_ he..?”

“The Iron Bull is Qunari. Their origin is rather unknown, but they live to the north, on the boarders of Tevinter. They follow the Qun, which renders all its members mindless slaves to its will. There are many who have abandoned the Qun and its ways, but I would exercise a measure of caution, _da’len_. We do not want to make enemies of the Qunari.”

Samahl nodded, his eyes catching sight of the Iron Bull coming to join them on the beach. Solas noted the same thing.

“ _On ghilanas, lethallin._ ” Solas headed back up the beach; _good luck_.

Samahl picked up another stone, throwing it and watching with a note of satisfaction as it skipped several times.

“You’re rather good at that,” Iron Bull commented as he came to stand beside the boy. “Did you grow up by the sea..?”

Samahl shook his head. “I grew up in a lot of places, but never the sea. But there was this pond, deep in the woods. My sister would take me there sometimes. She’s the one who taught me to skip stones. They couldn’t skip very far in the pond, though. Not like they can here.”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how does a kid like yourself end up a part of something like the Inquisition?”

“I didn’t choose to join, if that’s what you’re asking. They probably wouldn’t have let me anyways. But this…” Samahl looked to his marked hand. “Whatever created the Breach put this thing on my hand. It can close rifts, and with more power, the Breach itself. The Inquisition needs me because of this mark.”

“And… when the Breach is sealed, assuming that ever happens? What then?”

Samahl shrugged. “I don’t really like to think about it…”

“Fair enough.” Iron Bull took a seat on a nearby rock, and Samahl joined him on a slightly larger rock. “So down to business. You’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it… and I’m sure the Inquisition can afford us.”

“The Chargers seem like very skilled fighters. The Inquisition would be lucky to have them.”

“They are,” Iron Bull nodded. “But you’re not just getting the boys. You’re getting me. You need a front line body guard, I’m your man. Whatever it is, demons, dragons… the bigger the better. And there’s one other thing, might be useful, might piss you off. Ever heard of the Ben-Hassrath?

Samahl shook his head, leaning forward in attention.

“It’s a Qunari order, they handle information, loyalty, security, all of it. Spies basically. Or, well… _we’re_ spies. The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I‘ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, to get close the people in charge, send reports on what’s happening. But I also _get_ reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”

Samahl felt a worm of unease that caused him to fidget. “Just what… exactly… would your reports say..?”

Iron Bull seemed to spot the unease easily. “Enough to keep my superiors happy. Nothing that will compromise your operations. The Qunari want to know if they need to launch an invasion to keep the whole damn world from falling apart. You let me send word of what you’re doing it’ll put some minds at ease. That’s good for everyone.”

“That _does_ sound good for everyone…” Samahl sighed a bit in relief, but he still wasn’t sure another organization’s spy was the best ally to bring into the fold.

“How about I sweeten the deal a bit,” Iron Bull sounded somewhat sympathetic. “When all this is said and done—the Breach is sealed, order is restored, all that good stuff—if you haven’t got anywhere to go, you can come along with me and the Chargers. You’ll be able to see the world with us, pick up some useful skills, have a family that’ll watch your back. What do you say..?”

Samahl mulled the deal over for a minute longer, but the thought of finally having a plan for what to do when the Inquisition didn’t want him any longer made him feel more secure than he had felt in weeks. “Alright, Mr. Iron Bull. You have yourself a deal, on my word as the Herald.”

The Iron Bull smiled. “Excellent. Let me tell my boys to wrap thing up around here, and we can all hit the road before it gets much later.”

Samahl watched the man stand, a flutter of butterflies filling his stomach just briefly at the sheer marvel of the man’s height. The Iron Bull began to walk away, when the elven boy called after him.

“Mr. Iron Bull..?”

He turned back around.

Samahl’s voice dropped bashfully. “Th-Thank you for sweetening the deal like you did…”

The Qunari man smiled sweetly. “Hey, don’t mention it kid.”

Samahl left to the beach to join his friends, who waited anxiously to hear the results of the negotiations of an alliance.

“So, how’d it go?” Sera asked hastily, clearly nervous. “He’s not gonna smash us into a bunch of tiny pieces, is he..?”

Samahl shook his head, smiling a bit at his friend. “No silly. They’re coming with is to Haven.”

“That’s great, Sammy!” Varric praised, giving the boy a loving jostle. “So what’s the deal with tiny, huh? Is he secretly two dwarfs in a Qunari suit?” He winked roguishly.

“He’s actually a spy, for the Ben-Hassrath.” The stunned looks on his friends’ faces caused Samahl to stutter out an explanation. “I-It’s not a bad thing, though..! He’s on our side, he just-… a-also reports on us to his superiors, b-b-but only good stuff..! Nothing… secret, o-or important. Look, he doesn’t want the Qunari to feel like the need to invade and handle the Breach and everything themselves, so he’s coming with us to tell the Ben-Hassrath that the Inquisition has everything under control. A-A-And he’s gonna give the Inquisition all the other reports he receives from around Orlais… which is a good thing, I think…”

“I hope you’re right about him…” Varric still sounded unsure.

“If he had poor intentions, he wouldn’t have shown all his cards… right..?” Samahl was suddenly unsure, too.

“You have a point, Samahl,” Solas nodded. “Besides, if our Herald trusts the man, then we all should trust him.”

“Yeah, guess baldy’s right,” Sera sighed. “But do you think pointy-horns over there can even get through the doors at Haven?” She giggled.

Varric let slip a mischievous grin. “We may have to widen all the doors just a bit.”

Samahl smiled shaking his head. “I hope you too didn’t drink _too_ much. We’re riding ‘til sundown again.”

“Oh please!” Sera disregarded with a snort. “You can’t _actually_ drink too much. That’s a myth.”

Before long, Samahl, his friends, and the Bull and his Chargers were all on the road. When they made camp that night, both Varric and Sera were nearly sick to their stomachs, and were quite hungover when the morning came. With each day of riding behind them, Samahl grew more and more anxious about returning. What would Cassandra say? She would be furious, no doubt. Samahl hoped beyond hope that the Chargers would be the sort of peace offering he was convinced he desperately needed. Then, one night, as they company was camping in the Hinterlands, Samahl spotted a light not too far off in the distance, glowing and fading with all the characteristics of a fire. A thought popped up in Samahl’s head, and he remembered Leliana talking about a Grey Warden named Blackwall that was living in the Hinterlands. She had mentioned that all other Grey Wardens had seemed to disappear out of thin air, except for Blackwall. She had wanted to find him, see if he didn’t know anything about the disappearances. _Two peace offerings couldn’t hurt_ , Samahl thought.

Quickly and quietly, Samahl roused Varric, Sera, and Solas, and informed them all of his plan in hushed whispers. They were all supportive, if not a little bit reluctant to leave their sleeping rolls, and the four of them were sneaking away from camp within minutes. The elven boy had excellent night vision from growing up away from towns and their constant lights, so he led the company through the inky black Hinterlands landscape towards the warm golden glow. With Samahl’s skillful guidance, the four of them didn’t even disturb any of the sleeping rams or nugs that slumbered unawares in the tall grass. Before long, the company came upon the source of the light, a small cabin built at the edge of a large pond, into which a waterfall poured in the distance, a soft hiss that accompanied the symphony of insects and mournful nighttime birds.

“Sam,” Varric whispered. “I don’t know if we should—…”

Samahl knocked softly on the door.

It was a minute before the door opened, and when it did it was only a little. A scruffy looking man with a full black beard and tired sunken eyes glared through the crack, sword in hand.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Samahl said softly. “But we’re looking for a Warden Blackwall…? Would that be you, sir…?”

The man furrowed his brow. “How do you know my name..? You’re not one of those farmers, are you? With the bandit problem..?”

“No sir,” Samahl answered politely. “I’m with the Inquisition. I was asked to look into the disappearance of the Wardens of Ferelden and Orlais. One of my superiors is worried their disappearance may point to their involvement in the death of the Divine.”

“Maker’s balls, really?” Blackwall opened the door completely, his incredulous expression replaced with that of worried horror. “Do you—… how about you come inside, all of you. No use leaving you out in the cold. The fire’s still going strong, come warm yourselves.”

 Samahl entered the small home, along with his friends. There wasn’t much to the place, other than a bed, a desk, and the hearth. Grey Warden armor sat dingy by the bed along with a simple unmarked shield, where Blackwall set his sheathed sword.

“You really think the Wardens are involved with the Divine’s death?” Blackwall asked with the utmost concern, and a hint of defensiveness.

“N-No, I don’t, honest,” Samahl amended quickly. “But they’ve disappeared. No one knows why. There’s only speculation. That’s why we came looking for you. We hoped you have some answers.”

Blackwall shook his head, his sad, sunken eyes getting distant as he found himself in thought. “Haven’t seen any Wardens in months. I was asked to go around recruiting on my own. Not very many people want to join the Wardens when the Archdemon is a decade dead and there’s no Blight coming.”

“Any idea _why_ they would all up and disappear..?” Samahl pressed curiously.

Blackwall gave a meager shrug, his eyes coming to focus on the boy. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? We’re the first things forgotten when there’s no Blight.”

“Are… are you going to disappear now, that you know the others have..?”

“I don’t think so,” Blackwall answered thoughtfully. “Last I was told, I was supposed to recruit people. I plan keep doing that. For months. Maybe years…”

“We could use people like you in the Inquisition, Mister Warden Blackwall…” There was a hint of a plea in Samahl’s voice.

“I don’t know,” He answered gruffly. “I shouldn’t disobey my orders…”

Samahl felt his whole world fall just a bit. “That’s true, I guess…”

There was a few minutes of silence in the small home, then Samahl headed for the door, his friends quickly following suit.

“Thanks for your help,” Samahl sighed, halfway out the door. “If you change your mind about joining us, we’re camped just north-northeast of here. But we’ll be moving out in the morning, so…”

Samahl began to shut the door, then paused an extra moment. “Good night, Mister Warden.”

“Good night, Inquisition.”

The hour had grown exceptionally late, and by the time the company reached their camp, everyone hit their sleeping rolls and were fast asleep in seconds. Except for Samahl. He lay awake at least an hour more, head buzzing with worry about returning to Haven, to the wrath that awaited him. Eventually, exhaustion overcame the poor boy and he managed a few hours of dreamless sleep before the voices of the Chargers squabbling over breakfast woke him rudely. The smell of their cooking—meats and ale and meats cooked in ale—turned Samahl’s stomach like no other, and the elven boy rolled over in the grass—he never used a sleeping roll—and let out a long, pitiful groan. He lay there a while longer, content to let the rest of the camp think him asleep. Without warning, there came the zing of steel and a sudden hush over the banter and the laughter; Samahl sat bolt upright, crawling out of his tent to see what all the commotion was about.

“S’alright,” A familiar, gruff voice rang out from a short distance. “I was invited.”

“State your name, friend.” Iron Bull’s deep booming voice carried all sorts of menace.

“Blackwall. Warden Blackwall.”

“Mister Blackwall!!” Samahl popped to his feet and ran to greet the man, mood suddenly as sunny as the day. “Does this mean…?”

“I’ve been thinking about your offer,” Blackwall stated a bit unsure. “And I’ve come to the decision that thinking the Wardens are absent is just as bad as thinking we’re involved in this big mess. I want to join your Inquisition, if you’re truly trying to bring peace.”

“We are,” Varric answered from where he had emerged from his tent.

Samahl nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

Blackwall let slip a small smile. “Then count me in.”

“Warden Blackwall,” Samahl stuck out his hand. “Welcome to the Inquisition.”

Blackwall took a hold of the boy’s small hand in a not-too-firm handshake, which still caused the boy to cringe just a little. “Thank you,…?”

“It’s Samahl,” The elven boy beamed. “But everyone calls me Sam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time we get to see grumpy Sam. You better watch him, he's not quite the angel he usually is when you make him mad! ;)


	5. All Is Not Right in Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Major Spoilers for the quest "In Hushed Whispers" ahead!!!
> 
> Samahl and company travel to Redcliffe to try and secure an allience with the mages, who can help them close the Breach. However, the moment they enter the city, something just isn't right, and it's making Samahl extraordinarily nervous...

“Samahl…”

The voice was distant, but its familiarity came across plain as day. The boy looked up from where he sat on his knees, but everything was dark, the distance blurred in mist.

“Does it hurt…?”

He looked to his marked hand, which was no more than a glow, a green silhouette of what was once there, the green filled his whole arm, with only scale-like patches of dead skin as an indication of what the limb had once been. The glowing magic filled his veins and snaked their way up his arm into his bare chest and up his neck into his face, his eyes glowing faintly with the magic.

“Can you hear me, Sam…?”

Samahl hardly noticed that the voice had changed. He felt nothing but the cold, nothing but the pain. With a flex of his hand, the magic burst uncontrollably through his whole being, snapping his head back as the light flooded from his eyes and mouth opened in a silent scream. He felt the heat growing to a zenith, felt the magic tearing him limb from limb. A shadow fell over him; a figure stood before him, details marred by the increasingly blinding light of the mark.

“Sammy…? Sam, wake up!”

The mark finally burst with a blinding flash, and Samahl found himself gasping for air into the waking world, eyes darting in confusion before landing on the face of Varric, who stood staring down at Samahl with the utmost concern on his face.

“You alright there, big fella..?” He asked, the nicknames covering up his serious worry.

Samahl looked to his hand, finding the mark as placid as ever, contained within his palm, finally nodding to himself.

“Yeah,” he gulped, breathing coming to a normal level, propping himself up in the grass that had served as his bed. “Yeah. Just a bad dream is all…”

“Alright,” Varric didn’t sound very assured. “Cassandra wanted me to wake you. Better check in with her before you do anything else.”

Samahl smiled weakly. “Sure. Thanks Varric.”

As Varric wandered away, the elven boy allowed himself a few more minutes of peace, his elbows pulling out from under him and letting him fall to his back, engulfed in the wild grass and left in a haze of dew and bashful morning sunshine.  Samahl breathed it all in as his eyes fluttered shut once more, his fingers spreading to feel the grass between them, toes curling back to feel the sun on the soles of his feet. This used to be every morning for him; now that it wasn’t, he realized just how much he missed it.

“You awake, boss?”

The Iron Bull’s voice was low, rumbly with sleep, and beginning to sprout a familiarity to it. Samahl smiled, humming a little in reply, his eyes still shut gently.

“D’you mind carrying me to my meeting with the Seeker, Mr. Bull?”

“You got it, boss.”

Samahl could hear the grin in the large man’s voice, and soon after felt himself hoisted into the air and held steadfast in the Qunari’s thick arms. The small boy, internally giddy at his triumphant request, stretched luxuriously, back arching as his toes and fingertips sought opposite ends of the earth. But his stretch found the world was not as warm as Samahl would have liked, and ended in him curling up in a ball within Bull’s arms. Admittedly, Samahl was drifting back to sleep with the aid of the gentle sway of Bull’s gait, but was rudely brought back to reality but Cassandra’s less than approving tone.

“You said you were mature enough to represent us at these talks, Sam,” She chided coldly; Samahl didn’t have to open his eyes to know she was crossing her arms, but he peaked one open anyway. “This is _hardly_ mature of you.”

“I’m tired,” Samahl replied with a pout to his tone, shimmying himself closer to Bull’s chest as he yawned, drifting to sleep once again. “I haven’t been sleeping well…”

“Then perhaps it would be best to leave you here, at one of our Inquisition camps. Those here could conduct the talks in your absence, I’m sure…”

Suddenly, Samahl was wide awake, clambering down from The Iron Bull’s arms. “No, no! I misspoke. I’m tired, yes, but perfectly capable to join you at Redcliffe.”

Cassandra turned a scrutinizing eye to the boy who stood at attention before her, only half kidding around as she raked her gaze over him. “Wear your Inquisition armor, boots and all. At least try to look like you belong with the rest of us.”

Samahl squinted menacingly. “No boots, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Just get ready, Sam. We haven’t got a moment to lose.”

“ _The Breach threatens us all while it still remains_ ,” Samahl repeated the phrase he had heard a million times over with an unchecked degree of exasperation, already dashing away to find his armor. “I know, I know! I’ll be quick!”

Just like that, Samahl was off to the start of another beautiful day in the Hinterlands with his friends and the Inquisition. The journey so far had been more than eventful, with the small boy helping to shut a handful of rifts and care for the refugees, not to mention putting in place tactics and soldiers that were sure to drive away the Mage Templar fighting for good. The Inquisition’s presence grew ever stronger, and tales of the benevolent Herald seemed to spread with every step Samahl left behind. But Redcliffe was different; it was a whole other beast to tame. Unlike the people of the Hinterlands who received their aid and had nothing expected of them other than their thanks, the Inquisition was headed to Redcliffe with nothing to give but everything to ask of the mages. However, Samahl wasn’t the least bit worried.

“The Grand Enchanter herself invited us,” He chimed to Solas as the elf helped the small boy fasten his shiny Inquisition-crested armor to his chest, arms, and legs. “The mages will help us. It’s just—formalities? is that the word?—this visit.”

“I hope you’re right, _da’len_ ,” Solas replied calmly. “The mages are key to sealing the Breach.”

Beginning in the early morning and dragging into the late afternoon, the company’s trek to Redcliffe was long, and made even longer by the dreadful heat that settled in with the lack of wind. While most buckled down and did their best to endure the heat in silence, Samahl made his suffering quite apparent, tugging endlessly at the chainmail and crimson fabric that trapped the heat far worse than any of the Dalish armors he was used to, not to mention the light reflecting off the shiny metal plates of armor seemed to cook his very face.

“ _Fenedhis_ , it’s hot!” He panted, dragging his feet and falling back beside Cassandra, who didn’t bother to slow her persistent march to keep step with the exhausted boy. “Seeker, how much longer?”

“You’ll know we’ve made it when you see the stone gates, Sam,” She answered with only a sliver of patience left to her voice.

“Yeah, but how much _longer_ will that be..?”

Cassandra turned a menacing look on the boy, but before she could reply, she was cut off by Varric who called out from the lead.

“A rift!!”

In a series of swift motions that had become almost second nature to the company, they all took up positions to fight off the demons. Iron Bull hefted Samahl up onto his shoulders, ensuring the boy’s safety as he brandished a battleax, and Varric fell back with Solas, attacking from a distance as Cassandra barreled headfirst into the fray, sword at the ready. Samahl watched in amazed horror as his friends made short work of the demons, as they had several times before. But this time, something was off. He blinked several times, thinking the heat may be affecting his vision, but the oddities remained: Cassandra seemed to be fighting a Terror demon slowly, her sword swinging as if hampered by water, and the demon countering in the same sluggish fashion. Varric on the other hand, seemed to be shooting Bianca at twice his usual speed. He was about to mention something to Bull when the rift sputtered overhead, having become weak from its demons being destroyed. Knowing his cue, Samahl stretched out his marked hand to the rift, flinching ever so slightly as the two connected, and with a terrible increasing-in-pitch hiss, the rift exploded into a pile of energy and was shut for good, while the mark fizzled and grew dormant once more.

“You’re getting good at that boss,” Iron Bull praised, bouncing Samahl a bit to get a giggle out of the small boy.

“Thanks Mr. Bull,” Samahl smiled, his smile disappearing as Cassandra spoke up.

“Did anyone else notice that rift… _altering_ time around itself..?”

“I saw it!” Samahl piped up as Bull helped him down off his shoulders, looking to Solas instinctually for answers. “What was that all about?”

“Perhaps the Grand Enchanter will have some answers for us,” The elven mage offered calmly.

As if on cue, the iron gates leading to Redcliffe were drawn up, and Samahl and company passed through them. As they did, an Inquisition scout met them on the path, saluting as they did with a fist over the heart.

“We spread word the Inquisition was coming, Lord Herald,” the man reported, a hint of distress in his voice that Samahl picked up on immediately. “But you should know that no one here was expecting us.”

Samahl’s brow fell heavily onto his baffled eyes, head tilting ever so slightly. “No one..? But—… the Grand Enchanter…. she _invited_ us…”

He looked to his friends, as Cassandra, Varric, and Solas had all been there to witness the invitation. Though they all seemed just as baffled, Samahl felt a measure of ease to know they were all on the same page.

“If she _was_ expecting you, she hasn’t told anyone,” the scout replied as he came out of his slight bow. “We’ve arranged use of the tavern for the negotiations.”

Samahl was about to thank his scout when a voice spoke up from just down the road, and he looked to find an elf headed towards them.

“Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies!” He came to an uneasy halt before them, and something about his posture, his tone, it all made Samahl come to attention, a wary, aloof attention. “Magister Alexius is in charge now, but hasn’t yet arrived. He’s expected shortly. You can speak with the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime.”

The man turned on his heel and left the company at the gates, and as soon as Samahl took him to be out of earshot, his thoughts came tumbling out unchecked.

“Something’s not right.”

“You can say that again…” Varric sighed unhappily.

“Magister,” Samahl spoke the word like it left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. “That’s Tevinter, is it not..?”

“You are correct,” Cassandra’s tenseness came through in her voice. “But what is Tevinter doing meddling in affairs this far south?”

“Nothing good,” The Iron Bull grumbled. “That’s for sure.”

“I need to speak with Fiona,” Samahl said, voice becoming little more than a distressed whine. “None of this makes _any_ sense. I need it to start making sense…”

With Samahl at the lead, the company made their way down the path that led into Redcliffe village. The heat had let up just a tad due to the proximity to a portion of Lake Calenhad, as the village sat low in the valley on its shores.  The further the path descended, the cooler it felt. But despite bettering temperatures, Samahl still felt as uncomfortable as ever, heart racing in his chest from the fear that something was amiss, or about to go wrong. With each beat of his heart, his steps grew ever swifter; he _needed_ answers, arguably more than he needed his next breath. His mind was far too distracted to admire the town and its views, until he came to a dead halt at the foot of a towering griffon statue.

“Where’s the tavern?” Samahl said aloud, though not necessarily to anyone but himself, his voice sounding utterly panicked.

“Woah, hold on their, big fella,” Varric’s hands weighed suddenly and heavily onto Samahl’s shoulders, and the boy’s eyes found their way to the dwarf’s. “Let’s calm down for a quick second, alright?”

For a moment, the urge to keep moving was greater and more unbearable than ever, but then the moment passed, and Samahl found his heart slowing, his breathing easy, the manic buzz of his mind quieted. Samahl stared long and hard into Varric’s eyes, searching them for the strength to be brave, to be collected. _Hazel_ , Samahl thought. _Curious greens and soothing browns, with mischievous flecks of gold._ He took a deep breath.

“Better?” Varric asked with a knowing smile.

“Better,” Samahl smiled weakly, feeling the weight of the world leave his shoulders along with Varric’s heavy hands.

“Good!” The dwarf clapped one of his hands onto Samahl’s back, nearly knocking the small boy off balance. “The tavern is just up this here road; it’s not far. Come on, big fella.”

Sure enough, the tavern was only a short walk away, and as the company approached, Samahl hesitated outside. Needless to say, when the next few moments were sure to change the fate of the very world, a little hesitation is always present.

“Whatever happens,” Varric’s voice came soft and familiar from where he stood off to one side. “We’ve got your back, Sammy.”

Samahl nodded his thanks, clenching his teeth as he mustered up the courage and shoved the door to the tavern aside, entering the dark and yeast-pungent establishment. He was quickly followed by Varric, then Solas and Cassandra, with The Iron Bull bringing up an intimidating rear. An Inquisition scout quickly caught Samahl’s eye, as he saluted and gestured the company further into the tavern. Samahl followed, coming to the backmost room, spotting Grand Enchanter Fiona and a half dozen of the rebel mages at her side. Samahl felt his heart skip a beat as he locked eyes on the Grand Enchanter; a part of him wished she was someone totally different than the woman they had met in Val Royeaux, making the whole ordeal just a misunderstanding. But there she was, the exact same woman who had invited them to Redcliffe. And by the befuddled look on her face, Samahl could tell she couldn’t possibly recall their exchange in Orlais.

“Welcome, agents of the Inquisition,” Fiona gave a slight and polite bow as the company came to stand before her in the back-most room.

Samahl returned the bow with as much grace as he could muster in his Inquisition armor. “Grand Enchanter.”

“What has brought _you_ to Redcliffe..?”

Despite it being the inevitable, the question made Samahl’s stomach lurch out from beneath him, though his solid stance wouldn’t show it; his voice, however, wavered with uncertainty. “We’re here because of your invitation, Grand Enchanter. The one you extended to us in Val Royeaux..?”

“You must be mistaken,” Fiona’s brow drew together in confusion. “I haven’t been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave.”

“W-Well…. _someone_ was there in the city who looked and sounded exactly like yourself. Introduced herself as Grand Enchanter Fiona, in fact….” Samahl looked pleadingly to the mage. “You must think this all as strange as I do, do you not?”

“ _Exactly_ like me..?” Samahl heard his own unease and puzzlement reflected in Fiona’s voice. “I suppose it could be magic at work… But why would anyone—?”

She broke her thoughts off, shaking her head, voice regaining its unshakable authority. “Whoever… or _whatever_ brought you, the situation has changed. The free mages have already… pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”

“Tevinter?” Bull snorted contemptuously. “Figures they’d be right in the middle of all this shit...”

“An alliance with Tevinter?” Cassandra sounded shocked. “Do you not fear all of Thedas turning against you!?”

"I understand that you are afraid," Solas said calmly. "But you deserve better than slavery to Tevinter."

Varric was heard muttering under his breath. 'Andraste's ass... I can't think of a single worse thing you could have done..."

“Grand Enchanter,” Samahl tried to sound like the voice of reason he hoped to be for the mage, but once again his voice wavered with concern. “Surely it’s not too late to—….”

“As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you,” Her voice sounded tired, pained even by the very words she was speaking.

Samahl took the words like a sword to a shield, recovering quickly and with a measure of grace. “Very well. If you cannot negotiate with the Inquisition, who, may I ask, _can_?”

The door clattered shut behind the boy, nearly scaring him out of his armor as he turned to see who had entered. Strange robes, easy smiles, and the slight stench of dishonestly. Tevinter may as well have been written on their faces.

“Welcome friends!” The older man smiled, arms outstretched as he approached. “I apologize for not greeting you earlier.”

Fiona spoke once more as they man came to stand between the Inquisition and The Grand Enchanter with her mages. “Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius.”

“The southern mages are under my command,” Alexius’ voice rung with an undeniable confidence.

“A pleasure, Magister,” Samahl knew better than to be impolite to the man who had command over the ever-crucial mages. “I’m Samahl, Herald of Andraste, agent of the Inquisition, and its negotiator on the matter of an alliance with the southern mages.”

A coy smile slithered onto the man’s face. “I’ve heard the stories, Herald. They said you were young, but I never imagined…” He shook his head in something that was supposed to be wonder. “That would also make you the survivor, yes? The one from the Fade? Curious indeed.”

“Not nearly as curious as this… _relationship_ you have with the rebel mages, I’d say,” The bitterness started to creep unwantedly into the small boy’s tone, his chest puffing out defensively. “Care to elaborate on the subject, Magister?”

“What seems to be confusing you, my boy?” The patronization in Alexius’ tone was clear as day.

It was all Samahl could do to keep from glaring outright. “I’m just wondering, Magister Alexius, when this alliance of yours was procured?”

The man’s face shifted into a careful look of woe, gesturing to Fiona and her mages. “When the Conclave was destroyed, these poor souls faced the brutality of the Templars, who rushed to attack them.” His gaze fixed on Fiona. “It could only be divine providence that I arrived when I did.”

The Grand Enchanter’s brow drew together once more, though her voice betrayed nothing. “It was certainly… very timely…”

The situation had become quite clear to young Samahl. No matter what questions he threw Alexius’ way, the man would have a clever answer, evasive and thoroughly constructed. Besides, the Inquisition wasn’t in Redcliffe to play tit for tat with a magister of Tevinter. They needed to rebel mages, needed their power to strengthen the mark and seal the Breach.

Samahl took a deep breath, regaining his composure as best he could, remembering his title of Herald and doing his very best to live up to it. “Very well then, Magister Alexius. If you’re leading the mages now, I wish to speak to you on behalf of the Inquisition. I’m certain the two of us can come to some sort of arrangement that shall benefit us both.”

“It’s always a pleasure to find a lad like yourself to be so reasonable.” He gestured Samahl to follow as he turned and walked to a nearby table.

The small boy followed the magister, joining him at the table, and quickly becoming aware that even while sitting, the man still loomed over poor Samahl, whose feet couldn’t quite touch the ground.

“Felix, could you send for a scribe please?” Alexius called to the younger man who had entered the tavern with him and remained silent ever since; the magister turned to Samahl. “Pardon my manners. My son Felix, friends.”

The man in question, Felix, came over at his father’s command, and bowed deeply upon introduction before turning quickly to do as he was bid. Alexius returned to the negotiations seamlessly.

“I’m not surprised you’re here. Containing the Breach is not an easy feat many could even attempt. There’s no telling _how_ many mages would be needed for such an endeavor. Ambitious indeed.”

Samahl fidgeted in his seat, hardly comfortable with all the armor weighing him down and poking at him as he tried to get comfortable. “Call it what you will, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s what needs to be done. There’s no telling what could happen if the Breach is simply ignored.”

Alexius leaned forward. “There will have to be—“

The man suddenly cut himself short as something towards the door caught his eyes. Samahl looked to, finding Felix to have returned, though looking rather pale and moving sluggishly. Both the boy and the magister stood almost simultaneously, just as Felix stumble, kept from the floor by Samahl’s quick hands and surprisingly strong arms. The boy quickly pushed the man back upright as he felt the strength returning to Felix, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hold him up long on his own.

“Felix!” Alexius’ voice, for once, sounded genuine and worried.

Felix looked to Samahl apologetically as he propped himself up on the table. “My Lord, I’m so sorry... Please forgive me…”

“Are you alright..?” Alexius covered the distance between himself and his son in an instant.

“I’m fine, father…” Felix assured a little breathlessly.

“Come, I’ll get your powders…” Alexius' voice slipped back into its façade of confidence as he addressed the Inquisition and the rebel mages alike. “Please excuse me, friends. We will have to conclude this at another time.”

He passed by the mages on his way to the door, Felix in tow. “Fiona, I require your assistance back at the castle.”

Fiona immediately followed the magister towards the door. Felix limped along, pausing a moment to look at the worried faces watching his departure. “I don’t mean to trouble everyone…”

Alexius turned as he reached the hallway leading to the tavern door. “I will send word to the Inquisition. We will conclude this business at a later date.”

With that, the magister, his son, and the Grand Enchanter all left tavern, and the rebel mages left behind all scattered to do the same. Samahl stood staring at the door as his friends came to his side.

“Are you alright there, big fella..?” Varric asked. “You look a little spooked…”

The boy produced a small note he had been hiding in his closed hand. “Felix slipped this to me when he collapsed…”

“What does it say..?” Cassandra inquired curiously, drawing in closer for a better look.

Samahl had already read the note, eyes fixed nervously on the door as he recited the words quietly. “Come to the Chantry. You are in danger.”

“That doesn’t make sense!” The Seeker huffed. “Why would the magister’s son help you..?”

Samahl shrugged. “I don’t know, but he risked a lot to warn me. We have to be careful, but we can’t leave Redcliffe without doing a little bit more poking around.”

“Hey, whatever you want to do, boss,” Bull nodded. “We’ve got your back.”

Samahl smiled, a little shakily. “Thanks Bull. I don’t feel nearly as nervous around these Tevinter folk with you around.”

The Iron Bull grinned. “You need some Vints taken care of, I’m your man.”

“To the Chantry then?” Solas inquired.

“To the Chantry.” Samahl nodded.

Though the Chantry was only a short walk down the road, Samahl found himself growing increasing uneasy, noticing several unsettling looks and keen ears picking up on many more fervent whispers. The presence of the Inquisition in Redcliffe had been undoubtedly noted, and the peoples’ response seemed to be less than welcoming.

“How about we hurry up this secret meeting at the Chantry and get the hell out of here…?” Varric offered in a low whisper, clearly having picked up on the unfriendly air of the people.

“Seconded,” Samahl replied eagerly, eyes spotting the Chantry and feet quickening his pace.

“Sam, slow down!” Cassandra berated as quietly as she could, though her and everyone else seemed to be matching the boy’s pace anyways.

The Chantry doors were oaken and heavy as they always were, but Samahl shoved on them with all his might and slipped inside, the closing doors getting caught by Varric and Iron Bull and hauled open to allow the rest of the company to join their young friend. The place seemed empty at first sight, but the familiar buzz of a rift echoed distinctly, along with the hideous gurgles and cries of dying demons. Samahl ran to get a view of what was going on, armor weighing him down as he emerged in the main room of the Chantry. He found, as he suspected, a rift and a handful of demons, but unexpectedly found a mage cutting the last of the creatures down. The man turned to Samahl as he noticed the boy enter, flashing a charming smile.

“Good, you’re _finally_ here! Now help me close this, would you?”

“Yes sir,” Samahl nodded, looking to his hand to find it crackling, triggered by the proximity of the rift. He held his hand up and steadied his footing as the connection was made, and as usual, a high pitched buzz of energy grew to its zenith, and the rift flashed brightly before dissipating into energy, leaving no trace of itself behind.

The man looked between where the rift had been and the young elven boy, a wondrous glint in his eyes. “Fascinating! How does that work, exactly..?”

Samahl gave a baffled stutter, eyes darting to his slumbering mark. “U-Um…”

The man let slip a short, amused laugh. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and boom! Rift closes.”

“Essentially…” Samahl admitted bashfully. “M-May I ask who you are, exactly..?”

“Ah! Getting ahead of myself again, I see,” The man chided to himself, voice taking on a lavish air as he bowed. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“Another Tevinter,” Cassandra growled. “Be cautious with this one.”

The Iron Bull leered at the mage. "Watch yourself, boss. The pretty one's are always the worst."

Samahl glanced at the two of them before returning a slight bow to the Vint. “I’m Samahl, Herald of Andraste, agent of the Inquisition. You can call me Sam, if you want. Most people do.”

“Just Samahl?” Dorian asked curiously. “No title? No house..?”

Samahl shifted uncomfortably where he stood. “It _was_ Samahl of Clan Lavellan, for a time. Before that, it was Samahl of Clan Ralaferin; I believe I was Samahl of Clan Ghilain for a day or two, and there’s a couple more in there I don’t quite recall. But before all that, I was just Samahl, and now once again I am just Samahl, _technically_ an apostate, _technically_ the blessed of the prophet Andraste. But just Samahl keeps it simple.”

“I don’t know about this, Sammy,” Varric warned from where he stood with the others. “The Felix kid isn’t here; shouldn’t he be?”

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” Dorian answered with assurance. “He was to give you the note, then meet us here after ditching his father.”

“Felix is he..?” Samahl’s voice trailed off for a moment as he sought the right words. “Is he alright..? Magister Alexius seemed quite concerned about him when they left the tavern…”

“He’s had some lingering illness for months. Felix is an only child, and Alexius being a mother hen, most likely. Thus the delay. As for the matter at hand, I’m sure my assistance will be useful. Magister Alexius was once my mentor, after all.”

Samahl frowned in his confusion. “Your mentor..? Then why in the world would you betray him to help us..?

Dorian seemed to muster all the patience he could, which wasn’t very much. “Alexius _was_ my mentor. Meaning he’s not any longer, not for some time, in fact.” He sighed. “Look, you must know there’s danger. That should be obvious even without the note. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels out from under you. As if by magic, yes? Which is _exactly_ right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

“So, he arranged it so he could arrive here just after the Divine died, when the mages were the most vulnerable and desperate..?” Samahl was taking it all rather well.

Dorian smiled. “You catch on quick.”

"That is fascinating, if true," Solas said. "And almost certainly dangerous."

Dorian continued. “The rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up and slowed others down?”

“Yeah!” Samahl’s eagerness to understand conveyed clearly in his brightened tone. “There was a rift just like it outside the city gates!”

“Soon, there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unraveling the world.”

“A-…Are you sure..?”

“I _know_ what I’m talking about,” Dorian defended a bit zealously. “I helped develop this magic. When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work. What I _don’t_ understand is why he’s doing it? Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys..?”

“He didn’t do it for them.” Felix walked over, having arrived in the Chantry unnoticed.

Dorian smiled at his friend. “Took you long enough. Is he getting suspicious?”

Felix shook his head in wonder. “No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d be fussing over me all day!” He turned to Samahl, all seriousness. “My father’s joined a cult: Tevinter Supremacists. They call themselves ‘Venatori’. And I can tell you one thing: whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

Samahl hoped he didn’t look as pale and terrified as he very suddenly felt, like falling into an icy river.  “But… why..?”

“They’re obsessed with you, but I don’t know why. Perhaps because you survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes?

Dorian offered up a suggestion as well. “You can close the rifts. Maybe there’s a connection? Or they see you as a threat?”

Felix looked worried. “If the Venatori are behind those rifts, or the Breach in the sky, they’re even worse than I thought.”

“That’s—…. a _lot_ to take in…” Samahl could feel his hands trembling, and wondered self-consciously if the rest of him was shaking just as bad. “Clearly the Venatori have to be stopped, however they’re involved. A-Any suggestions and how we could… well… do that..?”

Dorian sounded a bit reluctant as he spoke. “You know you’re his target. Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage. Personally, I can’t stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I want to keep it that way for now. But whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there.” He couldn’t keep a coy smirk from his face. “I’ll be in touch.”

He headed for one the side doors, turning as he walked. “Oh, and Felix..? Try not to get yourself killed.”

Felix’s voice was soft as he answered, turning to leave as well. “There are worse things than dying, Dorian.”

No one spoke another word on the matter, though it was the only thing plaguing the company’s collective minds as they left Redcliffe and headed down the road back to Haven. The thought of a cult obsessed with Samahl was worrisome to all, but mostly to the young boy himself. Things had been so simple when they had arrived at Redcliffe. They just needed mages, so they could close the Breach, so the world could be safe again. Now, things were far from simple. For the first time, a suggestion of who _caused_ the Breach had been thrown into the mix, and perhaps that’s what scared young Samahl most of all. To think that someone can _cause_ a hole in the sky, or would _want_ to do such a thing in the first place! Samahl shivered at the thought; or perhaps it was the cold night air that had swept in with a coming storm brewing overhead. The dark found the company quiet in their respective tents, but Samahl lay awake, hands folded over his stomach as he listened to the slowing breaths of his friends. When he was sure they were all asleep, sat up and quietly made his way to the edge of the camp, kneeling in a patch of tall grass and folding his hands, bowing his head and pausing a minute or two in silence before he began to speak softly in Elven.

“ _Creators, hear my prayer. I pray to you, Elgar’nan, the All-Father, for your favor and your blessing; I pray to you, Mythal, the All-Mother, for your love to touch my heart; I pray to you Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt, so that I may not go hungry; I pray to you Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper, so that I shall never grow cold; I pray to you June, God of the Craft, so that my blade may always be quick and sharp; I pray to you Ghilan’nain, Mother of the Halla, so that I may never be lost amongst your forests; I pray to you Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets, so that with your gift of knowledge I shall never grow arrogant; I pray to you Fen’Harel, The Dread Wolf, for your cunning and heart; and I pray to you Falon’Din, The Guide, so that when my time comes I may join my ancestors in the Beyond._ ”

It was a little thing, the prayer, but when Samahl opened his eyes, he felt a wave of calmness wash over him. He took in a deep breath before coming to his feet, turning to walk back to where his friends were sleeping, only to find not _all_ were asleep.

“ _Andaran atish’an, ma ghilan_ ,” Samahl greeted Solas, taking a moment to get his mind back into the common tongue.

“Your prayer, _da’len_ ,” Solas’ voice was quiet, whether with wonder or to keep from waking the others, Samahl was not sure. “That’s not Dalish.”

Samahl felt his cheeks grow hot. “No.”

“Where did you learn it, _lethallin_..?”

“My parents,” Samahl answered, voice hardly above a whisper. “We used to all gather before we would sleep every night and join together in prayer. My father always recited it, I think. Elgara used to pray with me every night after our parents disappeared, but the Keepers never liked our prayer. They told us to recite the traditional prayers or not to pray at all. She stopped praying, then, but I still remember it. I do my best, but some nights, I forget to say it before I sleep… ”

“But not this night..?”

Samahl shook his head. “Tonight, I need as much blessing as I can get…”

“I like your prayer, _lethallin_ ,” Solas’ voice was soft with affection. “I hope it brings you the blessing you hope for.”

Samahl smiled as he walked over and joined his friend, and together they covered the few strides back to the camp. “I should have asked for some deep, restful sleep, but I honestly don’t know which of the Creators would grant me that…”

Solas smiled as the boy lay in the grass, already drifting to sleep the moment his head rested on the ground.  “Nor do I, _da’len_.”

“ _On nytha,_ Solas.”

“ _On nytha,_ Samahl.”

 

* * *

 

Guys, check it out!! I commissioned the wonderful  _invisibleinnocence_ from tumblr to do some drawings of Samahl!! Here's some that don't spoil anything that's to come (yes there's more, but SPOILERS!!)

Look at him!!! Lil baby Sammy and Sam the Herald of Andraste!! There's also this awesome picture, which I haven't had time to color yet:

I hope you like them as much as I do!!!!! :D :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, I want to hear some theories. Obviously, the next couple chapters are going to have to deviate from the original game storyline since Sam's a kid and too precious for this world. What do you think is going to happen? What are your thoughts on Sam's relationships with the different companions? What are some things you hope to see in future chapters? What are the sort of things you dread seeing??? I would love to know!! :)


	6. Bravery and Pretending You Have It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To go to Redcliffe Castle or to not go the Recliffe Castle, that is the question. The first one, at least. The second one on Samahl's mind is the ever lingering question of "Am I brave..?"

Sera was overly pleased with herself as she climbed back up the stairs that led into the Chantry basement. Stuck up old Vivienne would never find her knickers where Sera had stashed them! Giggling madly, she climbed the last few steps and emerged into the Chantry, spotting something she didn’t want to see: Samahl was sitting outside the closed door to the war room, looking like a kicked puppy with his knees draw up to his chest and his tearstained cheeks smooshed into his hands. Sera knew she was no good at dragging people out of the dumps—in fact, she hated being around sad people and generally avoided them at all costs—but Samahl was the exception, as she knew deep down the kid would do anything to see _her_ cheered up if the tables were turned.

“Hey, watch it!” She said snappily as she came over and stood over Samahl. “With a face like that you’ll make it rain! What’s with all the doom and gloom, short-stack?”

Samahl blinked as he looked up at her, sniffling a bit. “They’re in there…”

Sera listened, hearing the muffled sound of raised voices from beyond the door. She pulled a face, sitting herself down beside Samahl and jostling him as she got comfy. “The sticks in the mud are blowing hot air at each other. So what?”

“They’re talking about the mages, about Alexius’ invitation,” Samahl answered, voice broken. “I received it from a currier earlier today. He wants me to meet with him at Redcliffe Castle to continue our negotiation. Alone.”

“Sounds like a trap to me,” Sera offered.

“Well… yeah…” Samahl rubbed the tears from his eyes. “But we _know_ that. We could plan around it... figure out how to turn the tables on Alexius… what we _can’t_ do is just give up on the mages…”

“I don’t see why not,” Sera snorted unhappily. “Don’t care for mages myself. The people are fine, it’s the magic bits I’m not a huge fan of. Just… take that away, and we’re good.”

Sera realized she must have said something wrong as Samahl grew quite silent, and so she quickly amended her statement. “I mean, you’re good in my book, Sam-for-brains! Sure you’re all magicky sometimes, but you’re mostly not, and that makes you alright.”

“I would never hurt you Sera…” Samahl’s voice was hardly audible. “And I wouldn’t let the rebel mages hurt you either… but we still need them to close the Breach. So we need to meet Alexius again.”

The voices got louder as the arguing grew hotter behind their backs. Sera looked to the door, half expecting it to shake and rattle off its hinges from the din. “So if Alexius wants to meet with _you_ … why ain’t you got a seat at the yelling committee?”

“I’m just a kid…” Samahl mumbled, burying his face in his knees. “I don’t get a say.”

“You’re the friggin’ Herald!” Sera countered passionately. “It wouldn’t matter if you were a droolin’ old man or a smelly little baby! You should have a say in what happens to you!”

Without waiting for Samahl to reply, Sera got to her feet and bust into the war room, much to the surprise of those inside. She glared something awful at the lot of them, taking advantage of their stunned silence to berate them all.

“You lot listen here, and listen good!” She snapped. “You don’t just sit around talkin’ away about what yer gonna have Sammy do without Sam being there to participate!!”

“We’re just _trying_ to keep him safe!!” Cassandra replied in exasperation. “He can’t have him walk right into the magister’s trap! It’s too dangerous!”

“Too dangerous!?” Sera laughed bitterly, snagging Samahl by his shirt and pulling him into the war room. “You take a good long look at that creepy mark on his hand and tell me he’s not in danger _right_ _now._ You look him in the eye and you tell him you can keep him perfectly safe from whatever magic created the hole in the sky and put that thing on his hand!”

The room fell eerily silent as Samahl looked to his hand and watched as it fizzled and lit up for a moment or two. Sera was absolutely right; the _real_ danger was quite literally in the palm of Samahl’s hand, and there was nothing anyone could do to save him from it.

“The way I understand it,” Sera continued in a more matter-of-fact tone. “Until the hole in the sky is fixed, there’s no telling what might happen to that mark, and then to Sammy. So no, sending Sam to meet with a magister who _clearly_ wants to do him harm is _not_ the safest option, but if we want to patch up the sky any time soon, it seems to be the _only_ option.”

“I agree,” Leliana spoke with a degree of frustration in her tone. “We can’t just do _nothing_.”

“We can’t just _take_ the castle!" Cullen retorted, quite disgruntled. "Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden! It’s repelled thousands of assaults! If Sam goes in there, it’s not a matter of keeping him safe; he’ll die, and we’ll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts! I won’t allow it!”

“What,” Sera snorted contemptuously. “Won’t allow him to die or won’t allow yerself to lose your magical rift-closing hand? Get your priorities straight, blondie!!”

“Me?” Cullen came back defensively. “You’re the one telling us to let Sam go to the castle!!”

“She’s simply saying we can’t chose inaction, Commander.” Even Josephine’s voice grew drawn out with impatience.

In seconds, the squabbling was back in full throw, this time with the added voice of Sera in the mix. Samahl stood there, watching in distress as his friends argued and got nowhere. And then quite suddenly, the room fell silent, though not from a lack of yelling. In fact, Samahl could still see his friends screaming at one another, but no sound came out of their mouths. The boy was baffled until a voice spoke up from behind him in the doorway.

“Useless, the lot of them,” Dorian shook his head, casting a spell effortlessly with on hand that rendered the arguers mute. “Do you have any thoughts on the matter, my good lad? I didn’t see you tossing in your two cents with the others.”

Samahl nodded a bit shyly. “The magister expect me to come through his gates, the obvious way inside a castle. But it’s a _castle_ … aren’t those things full of secret passageways and little doors hidden behind bookcases or something?”

His voice trailed off, and Samahl suddenly noticed the stares of those who had been arguing.

“They can’t speak, but they can certainly hear,” Dorian smirked in satisfaction, ceasing his spell.

“Sam, that’s—” Cullen cut himself short as the sound of his own voice startled him momentarily. “Sam, that’s a great idea. But I’m unaware of any such passageways into the castle…”

“Wait,” Leliana spoke, clearly forming an idea as she did. “There _is_ a secret passage into the castle. An escape route for the family. It’s too narrow for our troops, but we could send agents through.”

“It’s too risky,” Cullen countered, though levelly. “Those agents would be discovered long before they reach the magister.”

“Not if there’s a distraction,” Samahl offered hesitantly, gaining more assurance as his friends turned to listen to his thoughts. “A-Alexius is expecting me to show. I could be the envoy he wants so badly, keep everyone’s attention on me while the Inquisition slips in unnoticed.”

“That’s good, but I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple.” Dorian stood up straight from where he had been leaning in the doorway. “Your spies will never get past Alexius’ magic without my help. So if you’re going after him, I’m coming along.”

“I’m not sure bringing along a Tevinter on our mission against Tevinter is the wisest course…” Cassandra grumbled.

“I trust him,” Samahl spoke up. “If he can help, I say he can come.”

“Right, it’s settled then,” Sera huffed as she headed for the door. “Come on squirt. Let’s pinch some cookies before we're stuck munching on the traveling rations for days on end.”

“I’ll be right there Sera!” Samahl smiled, watching his friend leave, then turning to those left in the war room. “When should we leave, do you think..?”

“First light..?” Cullen offered. “Should give everyone enough time to gather their things.”

“My scouts and I will head out at once,” Leliana added. “That will give us plenty of time to get a feel for the land and get in position for your arrival.”

“I don’t suppose I’m allowed to show up with the Herald, am I?” Dorian asked with just a dash of melodrama. Leliana’s no-nonsense was answer enough. “Right then. Best get down a bottle of something strong. Hiking about and sobriety don’t usually pair very well for me.”

And so it was that everyone scattered, and Samahl found himself drawn out of the gates of Haven, venturing into the woods nearby. Suddenly, all alone with his thoughts, the boy’s heart raced like a spooked halla, and his knees felt weak under the weight of his person. He had hardly gotten far before he collapsed, breathing shallow and difficult. The world was spinning, and it continued to do so even after Samahl shut his eyes. For as much as the elven boy was willing to do to play his part in saving the world, his acceptance of the burden didn’t make it any less encumbering. No one was ever made to save the world; no one could ever shoulder all the weight alone, not even the strongest in Thedas. And poor Samahl was about as far from the strongest as he could be. He was fearful, he was naïve, he was easily angered, he was easily dissuaded. And in that moment alone in the woods, he felt he was a quitter, too.

“Are you alright there, little lad?”

Samahl couldn’t bear to open his eyes in fear of passing out or losing his lunch, but Blackwall’s voice was as familiar as ever. Before he knew it, one big hand was holding him firmly and the other pressed surprisingly gentle against his forehead.

“Don’t seem to be running a fever,” the gruff man mumbled, more to himself than Samahl. “What seems to be the matter..?”

“I’m not brave enough…” Samahl’s voice sounded completely tiny in the vast empty forest.

“Brave enough, eh?” Blackwall huffed thoughtfully. “No, you’re probably right.”

Samahl opened his eyes, looking up into the bearded man’s face in distress. “You really think so?”

Blackwall nodded sagely. “Oh yes. You haven’t got the guts, my boy. Best give up now. Go home. Live a good life before the hole in the sky devours us all.”

Samahl’s distress quickly became confusion. “But that’s just it. I can’t go. The mark is the only thing that can stop the Breach, and it’s stuck on my hand…”

Blackwall huffed, face scrunching to look stumped. “Well shit.”

“Yeah…” The boy’s voice was feeble.

Blackwall sat there with Samahl, a hand stroking his beard pensively. “If I recall correctly, didn’t you travel to Val Royeux to meet with the Chantry clerics?”

“Yeah…” Samahl frowned, not sure why that was relevant.

“Didn’t those clerics want to see you hanged for the Divine’s murder?”

Samahl hesitated before answering. “Well yeah…”

“And the Templars were there, too… aren’t they killing apostates like yourself now a days..?”

“Yeah but I didn’t know they’d be there.”

Blackwall nodded complacently. “But they _were_ there. Did you run away then?”

The boy frowned further. “Of course not! The Templars could have helped close the Breach. But they were too stubborn… Seeker Lucius refused to acknowledge the Inquisition in the slightest…”

“They could have killed you.”

Samahl fell silent. “Yeah… I know…”

Blackwall grunted to himself thoughtfully. “You went to Redcliffe, right? To meet the mages?”

The boy nodded.

“But then it turned out they _didn’t_ want to meet with you, that Tevinter had swoop in and taken their allegiance.”

“Uh huh…”

“So did you just leave then? There’s no point in meeting with mages who don’t want to see you, right?”

“No!” Samahl defended. “We met with them. It doesn’t matter if Tevinter is making things more difficult; we still need mages to help close the Breach.”

“They could have killed you though. Or at least done you harm.”

“Y-Yeah…” Samahl gulped. “But still.”

“But still what..?”

“We need the mages…”

Blackwall nodded, going quiet for a minute before sitting up straight, nodding resolutely to himself. “Well, that settles it then.”

“Settles what..?” Samahl didn’t follow in the slightest.

Blackwall stared him down with both a measure of seriousness and a knowing twinkle to his eye. “You might not be the brave sort, young Sam, but you’re stubborn as hell, and you’ve got your heart in the right place. That ought to substitute for bravery pretty well, I’d say.”

Samahl frowned, blinking rapidly as it all began to hit him. Blackwall stood into a crouch, putting his hand on the elf’s shoulder again.

“Look lad, bravery isn’t something you’re born with. It’s something you earn by being daft enough to do the right thing no matter what the consequences. There’s not a single brave soul who would tell you they were never once as terrified as you are now.”

“Not even you, Mr. Warden Blackwall…?”

Blackwall smiled sadly. “Trust me, I’m not brave. I’m still just the daft old sod trying to do the right thing.”

“But you’ll get there,” Samahl added with unbridled hope. “One of these days, you’ll realize just how brave you are, won’t you..?”

The smile disappeared from the Warden’s face. “I dunno. Maybe one day…” He quickly shook the sadness from his visage, standing to his full height with a little bit of stiffness in his joints, offering a hand to help the elven boy to his feet. “Come on. Even the daftest of folk know you need a good night’s sleep before a long couple days of hiking.”

Samahl took the offered hand, feeling much better as he came to his feet with the Warden’s help. “How’d you know we were traveling..?”

Blackwall smiled knowingly. “Some things Wardens just know, little lad.”

In the silence that followed, the man sighed in defeat. “Or Sera was going around telling everyone about how we’re headed to Redcliffe Castle, and how it’s all because of her intervention in the war room…”

Samahl giggled just a bit. “Oh I don’t know, Mr. Blackwall. I think it might just be that secret Warden know-how of yours.”

Blackwall smiled softly, tousling the boy’s overgrown hair with his bear-paw of a hand. “Don’t be letting on to anyone, you hear…?”

It was a rather lively night, which Samahl observed in a detached manner from inside his quarters. His friends were all packing their things; many were making bets on who would accompany the boy into Redcliffe Castle. But young Samahl remained alone, pretending to be asleep as the night grew late, but unable to rest in the slightest. A million-and-one thoughts kept racing through his head, each one spooking him from any sort of oncoming slumber as they came to mind. What was Alexius planning? Who’s the Elder One his cult worships? Was he, Samahl, leading the Inquisition into a trap? Did Alexius expect him to use the secret passageways? Was he right in trusting Dorian? The unsettling thoughts made Samahl’s stomach turn, and he tucked his knees into his chest in compensation, face twisting into a grimace as he buried it in his pillow. _Am I brave?_ He wondered weakly, getting no reply from the dark of his quarters or the soft hush of the continuing night. _No_ , he decided firmly as he turned to lay on his other side, and then his back, and then his original side once more. _I’m just terrified._

The hours drug by like a thousand years, and yet Samahl still lay awake, eyes burning as they stared unblinkingly at the wall, watching in distress as the indistinguishable view grew distinct with shades of soft gold and blushing peach. If he had gotten any sleep between the hours of staring, the boy couldn’t recall; he couldn’t tell a difference if he had. He felt exhausted, his entire person sluggish as if dressed in five layers of winter clothes. The door to his cabin squeaked open quietly, and Samahl looked towards it at the sound of footsteps on the floor.

“You’re awake..?” Varric’s voice was both surprised and softly horrified. “Did you sleep at all, Sammy..?”

Samahl shook his head, his hair rubbing into his pillow with a soft swish, slowly forcing his legs over the edge of the bed and coming to sit, blankets still gathered around him as he yawned hugely, feet dangling above the floor. Varric came over as the boy slid down to his feet with soft thump, petting his messy hair affectionately. Samahl nearly fell asleep at the sensation, catching himself on the dwarf’s solid form as he leaned into him, eyes shutting and stubbornly refusing to open again.

“We don’t have to leave if you aren’t up to it.” Varric’s voice was brimming with concern. “A day’s delay won’t be a problem, I don’t think.”

Samahl’s voice was hardly intelligible as he mumbled, face squished into the dwarf’s shoulder. “No…. we need to go…. get mages… th’ Breach…”

Varric nodding, helping the small elf walk out the door and into the sleepily stirring Haven. “You got it, Sammy. But hey, if you need to stop at any point… take a rest…”

Samahl groaned in acknowledgement, hearing boots on the ground approaching.

“Get that good night’s sleep you needed, little lad?” Blackwall’s voice was extra grumbly after hours of long, cold slumber.

“I don’t think he got much of any sleep, hero,” Varric answered with a worried sigh.

Samahl felt two strong hands on his shoulders, straightening him from off his Varric-shaped crutch; he managed to blink his eyes open a tad.

“Shape up now, bucko,” Blackwall said softly but quite seriously. “Put on your brave face. After a long day’s ride, you should be able to sleep like a baby tonight. But not until we put some distance between us and Haven. Is that clear, soldier?”

Samahl nodded, doing his best to square his shoulders through his exhausted haze. “Yes Mr. Warden Blackwall sir…”

One of the Warden’s hands clapped the boy’s shoulder in approval. “There’s a good lad. Get a good breakfast in you. Splash some cold water on your face. That’ll wake you up. I’ll see you at the stables; you best look a little livelier then.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Blackwall…”

“You always do, lad. You always do.” The man offered a slight smile before giving a resolute nod and heading on his way.

Samahl watched him go, gathering his blankets tighter around himself. “Can I still lean on you, Mr. Varric..?”

“Lean away, big fella.”

Samahl did so contentedly, finding a smile slip onto his face, forgetting for a moment all the worries that had kept him awake, all the responsibility crushing down on him, all the danger that lay in wait at Redcliffe Castle. For a moment, Samahl was once again just Samahl, the nearly thirteen-year-old boy who liked to watch the halla graze and the sun set and wonder at the night sky. But his moment passed, and once again he was the Herald of Andraste, the one from the Fade, arguably Thedas’ last hope to fix the Breach. The smile was no longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! I know it's been a while since I posted a new chapter, so I just wanted to let you guys know that there IS going to be more, a LOT more! I got a pretty bad case of writers block there for a while, and its starting to clear up, but my work schedule is also draining my free time significantly! :( So basically, don't fret! More is coming! I've already got the first 1/4 of the chapter written up, and the next 3/4 are sure to be a lot easier to write as they'll be a lot happening! :) Stay tuned!!! And thanks for your patience!!!!!


	7. Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samahl and company finally arrive at Redcliffe Castle, only to find that despite expecting a trap, they're still completely caught off guard by what Magister Alexius had planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in the process of being edited! Thanks for your understanding! :)
> 
> Also, this chapter was meant to cover more of the events in "In Hushed Whispers", but at the point where I ended, the chapter was already a decent length and it felt like a good stopping point. The next chapter is sure to be a doozy! Bring tissues or maybe ice cream, just saying.

Samahl hadn’t seen very many sunrises in his time, seeing as he wasn’t inclined to be awake before midday, but today was the exception. The morning was still, the likes of which calmed the fearful boy to know end. The grass was speckled with dew, which sparkled in the soft sunlight like the countless stars. The air around him was cool, in stark contrast with the warm rays of light edging their way over the horizon and reaching Samahl like a mother’s kiss, soft and tender. The purple-hued clouds became accented by the golds and pinks of the early morning sun as it rose higher above the horizon. And most wondrous yet, Samahl turned his head to look behind him, finding the night sky still brilliant and freckled with stars to the west. It all wound have captured the small boy’s full attention on any other day, but today, his mind couldn’t help but wander to the castle that lay before him. Redcliffe and its castle lay just ahead, only a short march up the road.

The boy’s mind drifted as his eyes shut gently, letting the warmth of the rising sun wash over him. No longer did he think of Alexius, of the mages, of the Breach, but instead came to focus on but a fragment of a memory, faded and soft but retaining all its emotions. Another sunrise, another warm glow on his face, an arm enveloping him, drawing him in close, the slow breathing of their chest, the steady beat of their heart; the smell of a wet campfire, of spilled ink, of steeping herbal remedies; their voice, soft and loving, a laugh like the roll of thunder, a smile like a blooming tulip, eyes brown and wide like a halla’s and another pair blue like forest shadows and shrewd with wisdom. His parents; Samahl’s heart ached at the thought, jaw clenching up tightly as the urge to cry washed over him suddenly. What had happened to them..?

His eyes blinked open at the sound of muffled footsteps swishing through the grass, drawing closer. Samahl looked to find a scout approach, saluting as she reported in.

“We got word to Redcliffe Castle that you’ve arrived, Lord Herald. They’ll be expecting us shortly.”

“Thank you…” Samahl’s voice was just as tired as he was; night after night, sleep had been kept from him by the plague of fearful and anxious thoughts. “Send word to Leliana. I’m going to the castle now.”

“Alone..?” The scout’s voice rouse with surprise.

Samahl merely nodded, quite unsure of the decision himself but not wanting to delay the horrors that may lay ahead any longer. The scout hesitated, but saluted and went on her way to meet with Leliana, her scouts, and Dorian, who lay in wait to take the castle via the secret passageway. Alone once more, Samahl took in a deep breath, letting it all back out in a shaky exhale, already trembling in fear in anticipation for his meeting with Alexius. The boy stood, heading back to camp with silent barefooted footsteps, reaching his tent and donning his armor as quietly as he could manage, having to stretch and bend and twist beyond belief to get it all fastened on his own. For a moment, he paused, listening for any stirring in the camp, and heard none. Content that his friends still lay sleeping, Samahl tip-toed his way to where their horses were tied up, finding Solas’ chestnut mare, the horse he rode on with his mentor. The friendly beast recognized the boy, offering up a lazy nuzzle and a groggy whinny as her hello.

“Easy girl…” Samahl whispered quietly to the horse as he stroked her face, eyeing the staggering distance from the ground to her back, where the boy needed to be. “Bear with me here…”

The minutes of pondering ticked by, and Samahl made a few attempts to pull himself up onto the horse, with no avail. He stood watching the horse graze blissfully unconcerned, mind working sluggishly from a compounding lack of sleep.

“Going somewhere?”

The Seeker’s voice startled the boy to no end, and he turned around quickly to find that not only was Cassandra there, fully dressed in her armor, but Solas and Vivienne were there as well, both ready to head to Redcliffe. The sight of them sent of pang of guilt from Samahl’s stomach to his toes that he had even attempted to leave without them.

“I—…” The boy hung his head. “I’m sorry…”

Cassandra came forward, standing in front of Samahl. “Sam.”

The small boy raised his head, eyes finding the Seeker’s sharp hazel ones.

Cassandra’s stern visage softened with affection. “We’re here to keep you safe.”

Samahl’s eyes wandered to Solas and Vivienne, but his mind wandered to Alexius. Time magic. The magister altered the very fabric of time. If he wished harm upon Samahl, upon his friends, what could anyone do to stop him?

“Sam darling,” Vivienne noticed the distant fear in the boy’s eyes. “If you wish to turn back, no one would blame you.”

“No,” Samahl’s answer came automatically, his eyes fixing themselves once more as he withdrew from his thoughts. “Our agents will take the castle. Alexius will surrender. The mages will help up close the Breach. And then—…”

“Everyone’s happy,” Solas offered.

“Yeah…” Samahl’s voice came back faintly, a trace of disagreement in his tone.

“Then we best go,” Cassandra nodded sharply, lifting Samahl by the waist up onto his horse. “They’ll be expecting us shortly.”

Solas mounted Samahl’s horse and took up his usual place behind the boy, while Cassandra and Vivienne took to their own horses. The boy could feel the terror building in his chest with every step closer they drew to Redcliffe Castle. His eyes stung something awful from lack of sleep, and his mind buzzed torturously with a jumble of horrific what-ifs.

“ _Da’len_ …?” It was if Solas could sense the waves of panic rolling off his small friend.

“What do I do, Solas…?” Samahl’s voice trembled with fear; perhaps his whole figure was trembling, too.

 “Confidence, _lethallin_ ,” Solas said, the worry in his voice evident. “You are the Herald. You have the mark. Men like the magister respond to people who act like they own the world.”

The thought kept running through Samahl’s mind as they rose through the Hinterlands. Confidence. It sounded with each beat of his heart. Confidence. Through the gates of Redcliffe. Confidence. Down the bridge to the castle. Confidence. They dismounted, continued through the castle gates on foot. Confidence. Samahl’s small unsure steps became long, purposeful strides. Confidence. His fidgeting hands clenched to fists that swung by his sides. Confidence. His darting, blood-shot eyes gazed ahead like a bird of prey, intense and focused. Confidence. Samahl came to a halt as he was met by two Venatori soldiers dressed in their white Tevinter robes with silver masks. In a moment of hesitation, the boy recalled all of Vivienne’s coaching that had transpired on their way from Haven to Redcliffe. _Confidence_ , he reminded himself.

“Announce us,” Samahl instructed, no nonsense.

The Venatori soldiers didn’t so much as move a muscle, let alone acknowledge Samahl and his entourage. The moment of hesitation wasn’t much, but was enough to shake the very foundation of the boy’s mustered courage. A man appeared at the top of the steps that loomed in front of Samahl and company, decending gracefully as his face showed unbridled disdain.

“The magister’s invitation was for Master Samahl alone,” the man spoke calmly, this is displeasure was evident. “The rest will wait here.”

“Then _I_ will wait here as well,” Samahl countered, rather startled by his own brashness; perhaps that his confidence wasn’t as shaken as he had thought.

The man looked very torn for a moment or two, eyeing the two mages and the Seeker who stood behind Samahl.

“Come,” the man finally sighed. “The magister Alexius waits in the throne room.”

As the man turned on his heel to lead the company up the stairs and into the throne room, Samahl stood rooted to the spot, stunned by how well things were going thus far. His mind began to race with all the possibilities that being confident and brash could make possible. _Won’t allow me in the war consul? I’m the Herald, and I don’t allow_ you _in_ my _war consul!!_

“Sam..?”

Cassandra’s voice shook the boy from his daydream, and he hurried up the steps to make up for lost time, his armored chest plate clinking with his metal shoulder plates and metal hand coverings as he did. As Samahl caught up with the man escorting him and his friends, movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. The Venatori soldiers who had been flanking the stairs had turned to bring up the rear behind the mages and the Seeker. Samahl gulped, turning to face forward and seeing the expansive throne room, the walkway to the throne lined with Venatori soldiers standing to attention. At the end of the walkway, Magister Alexius sat elevated above it all, lounging easily in the throne. Grand Enchanter Fiona stood at the bottom of the throne steps with her head bowed; Felix was at his father’s side, and the magister’s son locked eyes with Samahl as they boy entered the room. Samahl wondered if Felix could hear his heart beginning to race. He wondered if he could hear the warning bells sounding in his head. He wondered if he could see the raw terror shining bright in his eyes.

“My lord magister,’” the man leading Samahl and his friends bowed. “The agents of the Inquisition have arrived.”

Samahl, never one to forget his manners, bowed deeply to Alexius. “Magister.”

A voice was sounding panicked in the back of the boy’s mind: _He can’t know you’ve caught on! He mustn’t learn of the Inquisition agents breaking into the castle! Be the distraction! Be the distraction!_

Samahl came out of his bow, watching as Alexius stood from his throne, opening up his arms in greeting as his face smiled placidly and his voice oozed welcome.

“My dear boy! It’s so good to see you again. And your… _associates_ , of course.” If a voice could portray a grimace, Alexius’ did. “So nice of you to join me for the continuation of these talks. I’m sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to _all_ parties.”

Fiona took a step forward from where she had been standing quietly, face furrowed in concern as she addressed Alexius. “Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?”

Alexius’ careful patience didn’t wear in the slightest. “Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives.”

“I’m afraid I must disagree, magister,” Samahl intervened, internally terrified but pushing the envelope on his confidence. “Undoubtedly you have the mages best interests in mind. Be that as it were, it should be no issue for the Grand Enchanter to participate in these talks.”

“Do you invite her to the talks as a guest of the Inquisition, my lord Herald?” Vivienne offered helpfully, though maintaining the integrity of Samahl’s apparent authority without effort.

“I do indeed, Madame de Fer.” Samahl nodded, flashing the woman a very relieved and thankful glance.

Fiona seemed shocked, but bowed slightly to Samahl nonetheless. ““Thank you…!”

It was only a subtle change in Alexius’ expression, but Samahl was excellent at reading people; the magister is was far from pleased. He sat himself back into the throne quite purposefully, as if to reaffirm his command over the talks. Samahl gave away nothing in his placid expression and expectant attention, but internally he was cowering at the thought that something may go amiss. _Did anyone else hear that?_ He wondered in paranoia, heightened by his bought of insomnia. _Is that the Inquisition’s agents underfoot? Did Alexius hear that too? Does he suspect!?_

“The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach.” The magister’s voice startled Samahl from his thoughts, and he stood at attention once more as Alexius continued dryly. “And I have them. So, what shall you offer in exchange?”

“A do believe you have a price in mind, do you not, magister?” Samahl tilted his head in mock innocence, feeling a mixture of anger and mischief building with each passing moment of the whole façade.

“Is that so?” Alexius sounded amused, patronizingly so. “And what would that be, my boy?”

“Me.” Samahl’s tone was absolutely mater-of-fact.

“Sam!!” Cassandra’s voice hissed softly, fervently, from behind the boy. “What are you doing!?”

“You?” Alexius chuckled in good nature. “What ever would I want with you, Herald of Andraste?”

“Oh nothing, naturally,” Samahl mused aloud. “My mark, however…”

Samahl held out his hand to the magister, his face illuminated sinisterly by the green light that flashed from his palm, the mark agitated at the boy’s unconscious command.

Alexius’ careful expression began to melt like wax by the fire of Samahl’s interrogation, though his voice remained as calm as ever. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re implying, boy.”

“He knows everything, father.” Felix looked to the magister from where he stood, his voice pleading.

Alexius’ tone lowered menacingly. “Felix… what have you done..!?”

“Your son only fears you’ve involved yourself in something terrible.” Samahl’s voice got choked by a rise of emotions. “Don’t confuse his love for you as betrayal, magister. That would surely be your greatest mistake.”

“Mistake?” Alexius hissed as he came to his feet. “You’re the one who’s a mistake! You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark—a gift you don’t even understand—and think you’re in control? You think you can turn my own son against me!?”

“What do you know of the mark!?” Any collectivity Samahl may have had flew out the window the minute his mark was mentioned. “Why me?! Who did this?! What was it meant to do!?”

“That mark belongs to your betters!” Alexius pointed an accusing finger, voice softening to a level of vicious bitterness. “You wouldn’t even begin to understand its purpose, boy!”

“Father, listen to yourself!” Felix cut in, approaching his father desperately. “Do you know what you sound like..?”

“He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be.”

Samahl turned to look at who had spoken, the boy and the magister speaking in unison.

“Dorian.”

The Tevinter came to stand by Samahl’s side, giving the boy a sense of comfort he didn’t quite realize he needed so desperately.

“I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down.” Alexius took a step forward, voice earnest despite its venom. “The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

“Your Elder One killed the Divine!” Samahl snapped. “What good could he possibly do for your home? What is he, a mage? A magister?”

The passion in Alexius’ voice made it tremble. “Soon, he will become a _god_! He will make the world bow to mages once more! We will rule for the Boric Ocean to the Frozen Seas!”

“You can’t involve my people in this!” Fiona spoke out angrily.

“Alexius,” Dorian’s voice was low and pleading, rising with frustration; Samahl did well to remember the mage was speaking to an old mentor, a friend. “This is exactly what you and I talked about never wanting to happen! Why would you support this..!?”

“Stop it Father!” Felix spoke harshly, but not unduly so, as Alexius hung his head. “Give up the Venatori! Let the southern mages fight the Breach, and let’s _go home_.”

Alexius turned to face his son suddenly, his voice nothing but sorrowful. “No, it’s the only way Felix! He can save you..!”

“Save me..!?”

Alexius turned away again. “There is way… the Elder One promised…” He turned once more to look at Samahl, eyes burning with a twisted determination. “If I undo the mistake at the temple…”

Felix cut in, drawing Alexius’ attention from a petrified Samahl. “I’m going to die. You need to accept that.”

Alexius hesitated only a moment before he raised his voice. “Seize them, Venatori!! The Elder One _demands_ this boy’s life!”

The magister’s command was met only with the gurgled cries of the last of his soldier’s throats being cut, looking to find the Inquisition agents had taken the place of where his soldiers now lay dead on the ground.

“Magister…” Samahl wasn’t sure if he was angry or if he was pleading.

Alexius looked at him with an inferno of fury in his eyes. “You… are a _mistake!!_ You should _never_ have existed!!”

As he spoke, the magister raised his hand to reveal a strange amulet held there, which began to glow and float as he cast a spell. Dorian reacted with lightening reflexes, casting a spell to counter that of Alexius’. The magister was thrown off balance, but the damage had been done. The amulet threw off a blast of magic that swirled dark and ominous in the air above Samahl and Dorian. With a deafening blast, all became dark.

“Sam!?” Cassandra was the first to recover, immediately on her feet to see what had become of the boy and the Tevinter. Her words died in her throat as the shock and horror hit her harder than the magic ever had. Where Samahl and Dorian had been moment before was now nothing but dust!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys GUYS this next chapter that's coming up OMG. I've been super excited to write it!! Those ho have played DAI and sided with the mages will know what's coming. The EMOTIONS, guys!! Also, a big surprise for Sammy! Game changing stuff, I swear! :P
> 
> Also just want to take a second to thank everyone for their super mega awesome wonderful comments!! Whenever I'm feeling poorly motivated, I go through the comment section, blush like a tomato, giggle and writhe a little, and then buckle my seat belt and put my chair in the upright position and WRITE! :D Thank you all so much!! I just want to hold super long discussions with you all but like, I can't spoil anything! Promise me we can have a long and detailed back-and-forth about Samahl's development and his best moments and that sort of things once we get to AT LEAST end of Inquisition (I plan to write through Trespasser, which I'm SUPER DUPER pumped for, and probably even post-Trespasser depending on my free time!)


	8. When Nightmares Come To Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexius' spell didn't kill Samahl and Dorian... but arguably it's real effect is a fate worse than death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in the process of being edited!! Thanks for your understanding!! :)

He was all too familiar was the lurching feeling that was free falling; how many nights had the sensation hit suddenly right as sleep was on the cusp of taking him, startling back into the waking world? The pins and needles sensation up the spine at the anticipation of hitting the ground, the summersaults the stomach did beneath the skin, the lightheadedness that was altogether not unpleasant. Samahl could have lost himself in the feeling, if it all hadn’t been cut short by the blast of water, soaking his clothes, rushing in his ears, filling up his lungs. Panic shoved his feet down beneath his person and pulled his head out of the water, gasping and sputtering, water coughing up from his chest in gurgling hiccups. The sound of splashing water and the clank of metal armor overwhelmed his hearing, his eyes still blurred and stinging from the water, the water that was left getting coughed out in a spray.

“Blood of the Elder One! Where’d they come from?!”

The words cut sharp through his daze, and Samahl looked up from behind a curtain of soaked hair to find two soldiers standing in the doorway—the doorway?—their faces hidden behind menacing spiked metal masks.

“Dorian..!” The words came out choked and prompted another couple of violent coughs.

The hiss of unsheathing swords. Samahl was on his feet, stumbling through the knee deep water, fumbling frightened hands finding a dagger at his side, drawing it and holding it out threateningly. A glance found the magister on his hands and knees, groaning as he choked on the water in his lungs, too.

“Dorian…!!!” How small his voice sounded, hoarse from sheer terror, tears springing up, running down his cheeks to keep from getting killed along with the rest of Samahl.

The boy’s eyes got huge as the shadow of a sword held over him fell on his face. Then his eyes shut and a scream of anger tore from his lungs. His anger was so great that the room seemed to boil with his rage. Screams; Samahl realized slowly that they weren’t his. He peeked open one eye, and found the soldiers burning alive before his eyes, a circle of fire burning on the dirty water around him, the flames hot and tall and hungry, seeking to burn down the room around them. And through the flame, Dorian’s face, eyes huge.

“Calm down..!!” The mage instructed fervently, hands raised up by his chest defensively, like approaching an easily spooked halla. “It’s alright..! Just calm down!”

Samahl’s breath caught in his throat as he heard his sister’s voice in the words. _Calm down, Sam. This flame won’t hurt you. Calm down. Hold it steady. Calm down._

“There’s a good lad.” Dorian’s voice sounded relieved, and Samahl looked to find him at his side, soft brown eyes twinkling, lips curled in a smile. “Let me see your hands there.”

Samahl looked to his hands, finding them trembling, burning, red and blistered; his heart beat fast in fear.

“It’s okay, it happens,” Dorian soothed in a voice that was both velvety and genuine; his hands pressed Samahl’s together gentle, then clasped around them. “It’s okay. Look here.”

Dorian’s hands glowed with a soft blue hue, and immediately the searing pain in Samahl’s hands went from a scream to a soft whisper.

“I’m sorry…!” Samahl was babbling as soon as his regained the ability to speak from the shock. “I’m so _so_ sorry..!! I shouldn’t have—…that wasn’t—…I’m sorry..!! I-It won’t happen a-a-again..!”

Dorian looked from the boy’s hands to his face, his own face quite serious. “Is this the first time you’ve used magic then..?”

Samahl shook his head bashfully. “N-N-No… I used to practice a lot… w-with El, my sister… but Vivienne says it’s too dangerous… Solas said it should only be used a last resort until I have a stronger willpower…”

Dorian couldn’t help but let out a disbelieving guffaw. “Did you _see_ the magnitude of that fire you summoned? That’s a _gift_ , Herald. You can’t just ignore that sort of talent.”

“But—….” Samahl gulped. “But what if I become an abomination?”

Dorian smiled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Avoiding possession the easiest part of magic!”

“It—…. It is…?” Samahl was surprised.

Dorian snorted. “Oh yeah. You see, demons tend to represent strong emotions: rage, terror, desire, etcetera etcetera. So naturally, when a mage is displaying a great amount of these emotions while using magic, thus connecting with the Fade, it attracts the demons that corresponds to their feelings. A mage who casts a spell in anger risks possession by a rage demon. A mage who lashes out in fear with magic risks possession by a terror demon. You get the point.”

Dorian tapped his temple. “All you need to do, my friend, is take the emotion out of magic, and you’ll never risk possession in the slightest.”

Samahl’s eyes were huge with wonder. “How..?”

“Well,” Dorian mused. “When you go to attack an enemy, let’s say. You don’t cast a spell thinking: _This is my enemy and I hate him and want to see him burn_. Just think: _I see this man here, and I set him on fire._ Boom. The spell still casts, and yet there’s no emotion behind it. No emotion means no demons. No demons means no possession. Voilà!”

Dorian flicked his wrist and a flame appeared in his palm, burning bright but not doing a lick of harm to the man’s hand. “Emotion also fuels magic. Too much emotion and demons won’t be your only problem.” He nodded to Samahl’s hands, which while soothed, were still injured from the flames the boy had cast inadvertently. “The more you train, the more powerful of spells you’ll be able to keep in check and cast without a problem. Once we leave Redcliffe, I’ll—”

“ _Fasta vass!!_ ” Dorian exclaimed suddenly, cutting himself short. “Redcliffe! Alexius’ spell!!”

He looked around, and Samahl noticed how he nibbled at his bottom lip in worry; it was a tell the boy was sure to remember. “Last I remember, we were in the throne room…”

Dorian’s face suddenly lit up with understanding, and all the worry melted into the air. “Ah, yes, that must be it. Displacement. Probably not what Alexius intended.” He wandered through the flooded room purposefully. “The rift must have moved us… to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy..?”

“Okay…” Samahl mulled over the mage’s words. “So when exactly are we then..?”

“Not where, _when_ —” Dorian’s witticism was cut short as he eyed Samahl in great surprise. “Well hasn’t _someone_ got a head on their shoulders!”

Samahl smiled sweetly. “Doesn’t take a genius to realize the amulet functioned as a focus. And considering all the time magic he’s been dabbling in at Redcliffe…”

Dorian laughed. “Cheeky little fellow. I bet that mouth of yours has landed you in trouble once or twice, yes?”

Samahl couldn’t help but grin. “Once or twice, yeah.”

The mage crossed his arms. “So tell me, oh wise Herald, when exactly are we?”

Samahl shrugged. “ _You’re_ the mage who studied this sort of thing. What do you think? Forward a day? A year? A century? Perhaps back a millennia?”

Dorian pointed a finger in acknowledgment. “Those are excellent questions! We’ll have to find out where the rift took us first, won’t we?”

The boy shrugged. “’Spose so. You think leaving this cell’s a good start..? Whoever-they-were left the door wide open.”

“It’s a good a start as any,” Dorian nodded in agreement. “ _If_ we can get back.”

Samahl felt a wave of unease rush up his spine. “And… if we _can’t_..?”

Dorian’s face fell a bit. “One question at a time, Sam. Come on. Out of the cells we go!”

The Tevinter took the lead, sloshing through the water as he headed for the cell door. Samahl followed at his heels, struggling through the water that was up past his knees. Attention highly distracted by the little flame the boy cautiously summoned into his hand, he missed the giant shards of red lyrium that protruded from the dungeon walls and glowed with an ominous life, or the crumbling state of everything around him. The flame was a wonderful distraction, helping to draw Samahl’s attention away from all the things that should have been causing the boy mindless panic. The lyrium filled every crack, every crevice, every corner of every room; the flame flicked in a strange little dance. The damp aroma of death clung to the air like the smell of sewage; the flame gave a soft glow, warm and sunset red and familiar. The atmosphere buzzed with a strange energy that vaguely incanted the earliest of Samahl’s memories; the flame grew as he willed it to, and then shrunk once more to little more than an ember.

“Watch yourself.”

Dorian’s voice cut into Samahl’s peaceful and distracting thoughts, and the boy looked up to come face to face with a glowing, menacing, giant-sized shard of red lyrium, jutting from the floor to the ceiling at a sharp angle and coming just low enough for even Samahl to need to duck under it. The moment it registered just what the thing was, Samahl stumbled back several paces, eyes getting wide in terror.

“Th-Th-Th-That’s red lyrium..!!”

Dorian looked at the shard, nonpulsed. “Yes, I suppose it is, isn’t it?”

“Th-There was red lyrium at the Breach, a-a-at the Temple of Sacrad Ashes. Oh no... oh no oh no, no no no no!!” It all began to register, all the red lyrium everywhere on everything.

“Sam…?”

The boy had backed into a corner, then skirted quickly from the spot as he noticed the red lyrium glowing there, trembling as he hugged himself and tried to disappear. “This can’t be happening…! This isn’t happening..!!”

Two hands grabbed his shoulders and whirled him around, bring him face to face with a Dorian crouched to his level, eyes dark and serious.

“What’s the matter?” Dorian demanded, though not harshly so.

“Th-Th-Th-The r-red lyri-rium…!!” Samahl’s voice was broken with hiccups as his breathing grew shallow and panicked, his whole body shaking like a leaf in a storm.

“What about it?”

“I-I-It w-was at th-th-the C-Conclave, a-a-at the Breach—… V-Varric says i-i-it’s evil…! W-Why is it everywhere?! Mr. Dorian, why is the red lyrium in Redcliffe…!?”

“This _isn’t_ Redcliffe,” Dorian reminded firmly. “Not the one we know. This is some… _other_ Redcliffe, that isn’t real. It’s not supposed to exist. If we get back, it’s gone. Poof. No more red lyrium at Redcliffe. But first we _have_ to get back, and we can’t possibly do that if we don’t continue on.”

Samahl’s eyes were distant and glossy with fear; Dorian gave him a shake to bring him back to reality.

“Do you understand, Sam? We need to move on or the red lyrium might be here to stay.”

Samahl stared into the Tevinter’s face, still shaking, still struggling to get a decent breath, but through all the fear, he _did_ understand. All he could manage to get his answer across was a fervent nod.

“Good.” Dorian nodded sharply. “Now, we may have to burn our way through some guards if we’re to get answers. Still have that flame?”

Samahl raised his right hand, managing through his trembling to will a small, shuddering flame into existence. Dorian smiled, taking the boy’s hand in his and shutting it into a fist, the flame disappearing.

“That’s good. But save your energy for the fight, alright? Don’t want me tiring my pretty self out fighting all your enemies for you, yes?”

The quip managed to put a small shaky smile onto the boy’s face. “No sir…”

Dorian _tsked_ distastefully. “Enough of that sir nonsense. You’re making me out to be some old wrinkly mentor, and I won’t have any of that. It’s Dorian, my good fellow. Just Dorian. Much like yourself, Just Sam.”

“Yes Mr. Dorian, sir…”

Dorian rolled his eyes as he stood back to full height. “Oh I’m simply _overwhelmed_ by your sense of humor, oh gracious Herald. Do spare me from any more of it.”

Samahl managed to take in a deep breath fairly evenly, though his exhale was still unsteady. “Let’s go, Pavus. I’d rather not be here any longer than we have to…”

Dorian raised an eyebrow in surprise. “It’s Pavus now, is it? Cheeky little bastard you.”

The Tevinter’s easy-going mood gave Samahl something to latch onto that wasn’t his cancer of fear; the mage’s voice came out of his mouth like wine, smooth but bitter; his moustache twitched irksomely; but his eyes remained kind and compassionate, glittering now and again with mischief but remaining focused on Samahl, worried, caring. It was the sort of look that made the boy feel an insufferable need to apologize for no real reason.

The water flooding the lower levels of the dungeon began to recede as Dorian and Samahl climbed some stairs, both on high alert for clues as to what time they were in, and cautious for potential enemies. They came to a door, opening it to emerge onto a walkway suspended above what seemed like an endless pit. It stretched off to the sides and led to two more doors, one on the left and one on the right. Each door was guarded by the same intimidatingly-garbed soldiers, and both groups of soldiers noticed the mage and the elven boy enter almost instantaneously.

“You take left, I’ll take right!” Dorian instructed, maintaining a surprising level of calm to his voice despite the rather perilous situation they had quite literally walked into. “Remember: no emotion, just fire. Just think about those soldiers and think about them being on fire. Make that image a reality. Will it to be so.”

Samahl nodded, doing his best to heed to Tevinter’s advice, but finding himself going rather deaf in the blinding panic that the armored men to the left were fast approaching, swords drawn, intent to kill frightening clear. The boy held out his hands, cringing in anticipation that a blast of fire would emit at any time. But the seconds ticked by, and the boots kept clashing with the stone walkway, drawing louder, drawing closer.

“Really focus, Sam! _Really_ focus! No emotion, no fear!”

On the right, two of the four soldiers disintegrated in a flash of lightning and energy; the other two were promptly frozen to the spot while the spirits of the two freshly dead rose from their ashes to attack their living friends. Samahl knew he didn’t have much time, but what could he do if he simply couldn’t set them on fire? The image came to his head, of the soldiers’ swords jamming through his chest, of the blood spilling like a fountain onto the stones; another sword would cut into Dorian’s legs, blood oozing rapidly into a puddle as the man fell to his knees; a sword severed his head from his body with the sickening snap of a spine; Samahl was left bleeding, gasping for air as blood boiled into his mouth and drowned him slowly as it trickled down into his lungs. _Whoosh!!_ The sudden heat and the sounds of screams. Samahl opened his eyes, expecting his hands to be smoking, his soldiers to be burning. Instead, he found he hadn’t budged; Dorian stood between him and the nearly-upon-them soldiers, melting their armor to their flesh and their flesh from their bones as he cast a powerful wall of fire between the soldiers and the two of them. To say Samahl felt disheartened would be a major understatement; the poor boy suddenly felt utterly useless. All those thoughts of he and Dorian’s grizzly deaths and he still was powerless to prevent it. The tears started uncontrollably.

Once the soldiers were dealt with, Dorian turned to find his young friend soaked in tears and sobbing terribly. The mage’s heart went out to the boy in the most painful way. He could still remember his days of training as a young boy, the bitter disappointment when a spell just wouldn’t happen. All Dorian got from his failure was a ball of loathing in his stomach and the disappointed silence of his father. Samahl had a spell fail to cast and it had almost cost him his life. Dorian didn’t know what else to do but hug him. And so he scooped him up, held him tight, and didn’t ever plan to let go.

“I’m sorry…!!” Samahl finally managed to sniffle after a few minutes of wordless sobbing.

“Don’t be sorry,” Dorian replied strongly, voice a little shaky himself. “Don’t you ever be sorry for trying your best! I’m proud of you, you understand?”

“B-B-But I—…”

“I’m _proud_ of _you_ , Sam.” Dorian repeated with more conviction, saying the words he himself had always needed to hear. “It doesn’t matter what you did. It doesn’t matter what you didn’t do. No matter what, I will _always_ be proud of you.”

Dorian felt Samahl hug him back as tightly as his little arms could—which was surprisingly tight, he found—and he let the hug linger a moment or two longer than intended. Gently, he eased to boy away and looked him in his reddened, puffy face.

“Come now. Let’s see your little flame.”

Obediently, Samahl held out his hand, and though there was quite a bit of delay, the flame did appear once more, stronger and brighter than it had been last time around.

“Good!” Dorian praised. “Try and make it bigger. A ball, if you will.”

Samahl hesitated, but with all his concentration, he stared down the flame in his hand, stuck his tongue out, and willed and willed and willed for it to get bigger. The flame was stubborn, but it eventually bowed to the boy’s will and grew steadily larger at Samahl’s meticulous command. Soon, it was the size of a ball, filling his hand with swirling flame, bright and hot but leaving the boy’s hand cold to the touch.

“There you go!” Dorian praised with a soft smile.

“I did it!” Samahl turned to beam at Dorian, the tears staining his cheek illuminated by the flame’s hot red light.

“Knew you could,” Dorian smirked gently, tousling the boy’s hair as he passed him by, heading for the door on the right. “Now let’s forgo the magic lessons until we’re back in our own time; perhaps after a good bath, too.”

Without a word, Samahl watched as his ball of flame disappeared in a puff of smoke, and the boy ran to keep up with his Tevinter friend. The door the mage chose led down into another set of dungeon cells. The two of them descended the steps.

“Dorian..?” Samahl was still rubbing tears from his eyes. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“Someone who can tell us when we are, ideally.” Dorian answered, keeping on high alert the longer the two of them milled about the castle; sooner or later, someone was sure to notice the dead soldiers they left in their wake, and when they did, that meant big trouble.

“Someone like who…?” The boy’s follow-up came as the mage picked another door to investigate.

His answer came in a sound that felt like a knife to the chest: “ _Da’len_ …?”

 _No. It’s just another nightmare_ ; Samahl’s mind was racing

“Is that really you..?”

 _Someone wake me up!_ This couldn’t be happening…!!

Red glowing eyes, black and blue features, an expression like death itself, voice a distant echo of itself, giving off the same essence as the red lyrium.

“Solas…!!” Samahl sprinted to the elf’s cell, hands gripping fervently to the bars as he stared at his mentor and friend with unabashed horror.

“You’re alive!?” Solas pushed open his door, falling to his knees as he looked Samahl in the face desperately, hand coming gently to the boy’s cheek and finding him very much real, not a figment of his imagination; the elf’s expression was mixed, from baffled to mortified to terrified. “But… we saw you die..!”

“I’m not dead!” The boy was crying before he could stop himself. “We’re not dead! The spell displaced us in time…”

“We just got here, so to speak…” Dorian kept his distance, but alert nonetheless should something prove to be off about Samahl’s dearest friend.

“Can you reverse the process?” Solas asked urgently, looking to Dorian. “You could return and obviate the events of the last year! It may not be too late!!”

“We will!” Samahl sniffled, though voice turning quite hard all of a sudden, straightening himself in determination; anything for his friend, anything for Solas, anything for his one and only _lethallin_. “Or we’ll die trying!!”


	9. For Better of For Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His time in the horrible future has changed Samahl... for better or worse, no one can say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is in the process of being edited. Thanks for your understanding! :)

Haven was quiet, the sort of quiet that only came when everyone was afraid to open their mouths. It was the sort of quiet that wasn’t peaceful, it wasn’t relaxing, it wasn’t desirable; in fact, quite the opposite, it was a rather stressful and uneasy sort of quiet. And at the center of all the quiet, the subject of everyone’s unease, was none other than young Samahl.

Everyone knew what had transpired at Redcliffe. Everyone had heard at least parts of Dorian’s official report on the events that had occurred on account of Alexius’ spell. And everyone was both sympathetic and suddenly quite terrified.

Samahl wasn’t quite sure what _he_ was feeling. He had been forced to shove his feelings into some dark back corner of his mind the moment he and Dorian had poofed back into the throne room only an instant later than the moment they had disappeared. In that moment, Samahl couldn’t afford to be terrified, or haunted, or an emotionally damaged child. He had to be the Herald. The face went on, and it hadn’t come off, not while he addressed Alexius, not while he offered Fiona and her mages an alliance, not the entire trek back to Haven, not even now in his quarters. Suddenly everyone was frightened of him, the Herald of Andraste, once they heard what he was suddenly capable off. He looked to his bandaged hands, unwrapped them slowly to look at the blistered and burned flesh beneath. His mark flared us, illuminating the burns in its ominous green light. Samahl looked at his hands and still wasn’t sure what he was feeling.

There was a knock at the door, soft and timid like the rest of Haven. Samahl answered automatically, working to re-wrap his hands as he did.

“Come in.”

The door opened slowly, and Varric stepped inside, face twisted up with the most severe of worry as he shut the door behind himself.

“Sam… are you alright..?”

“I’m fine,” The boy answered, not quite bitterly but in a tone that made anyone reluctant to further the conversation.

“Don’t try and pull that sort of crap with me, big fella,” Varric warned gently. “You’ve haven’t been anything even _close_ to fine since that mark appeared on your hand. Don’t try and act like you’re suddenly A-Okay.”

“I’m a mage now…” Samahl answered flatly.

Varric snorted. “Oh really? I thought you were an elf.”

Samahl eyed the dwarf, his pain shining through his expressive blue eyes.

Varric sighed, sitting beside Samahl on the boy’s bed. “Look kid, you were always a mage. It didn’t matter that you weren’t a practicing one.”

“Aren’t you afraid I could hurt you?”

”No!” Varric replied sharply, his brow creasing with further worry. “Sam, you aren’t a monster. Sure, you can set people on fire or turn them to ash with a lightning bolt. But Cassandra can kill people with her sword. I can kill them with my crossbow. And yet you still trust the Seeker and I to not hurt you when we’re around, don’t you?”

Samahl nodded, eyes cast down.

“You know, before the whole mages and Templars shit show, I spent an awful lot of time with mages.”

The boy looked up, listening.

“Dalish mages, apostates, circle mages… my best friend Hawke is a mage too. It’s far too easy for everyone to sit around and fear what mages could do to the world if they wanted to, and that fear breeds a false justification to lash out at the mages. Protecting everyone from what the mages _could_ do, they say. But from my experience, Thedas shouldn’t fear mages rising up and ending the world any more than they should fear each and every man with a sword doing the same. Mages aren’t inherently evil. Magic isn’t inherently evil. But there _are_ bad people; some might pick up a sword, others might have magic at hand. The difference is we put the man with a sword in the dungeons and everyone thinks him a lunatic; the man with magic gets _everyone_ who’s every cast a spell or _could_ cast a spell locked away and everyone thinks mages to be a breed of lunatics.”

“That’s not fair…”

“No, it’s not. And it’s not fair that you should feel ashamed or afraid of your magic because that’s what the world tells you to feel. Embrace it, Sam! Sure, it’ll be messy at first, though not unlike your sword training when you started out. It wasn’t pretty, but the Seeker strapped you up in padding and put the right safety precautions in place so that all that flailing and haphazardous swordplay could eventually see you a capable warrior. The precautions might be different this time around, but the principle remains: you’ll be kept safe while you work out your magical techniques and all that stuff, until you know what you’re doing and can keep yourself and everyone else safe when you use your magic. I’m sure Sparkler and Iron Lady and Chuckles will all be more than happy to get you to that point, big fella.”

“Thank you Varric…” Samahl’s voice was small, almost apologetic.

“Yeah, anytime Sammy.” The dwarf patted the boy on the back. “Which brings me back to my original question: are you alright..? I heard the report from the Vint…”

The flames were hot and fueled by anger, no matter how much he tried to keep them neutral, emotionless. The images kept running through his mind, the tinder to his fires. Cassandra impaled by a shard of lyrium, breathing weakly as she asked through tears why the Maker had abandoned them, an apology for not keeping him safe the words that were formed from her dying breath. Blackwall huddled in a corner, swearing profusely as the lyrium jutted red and menacing from his skin, _the dead should stay that way_ he cried, the echoes of the man’s paranoid screams as Dorian pulled Sam away. Varric’s desolate and bruised features, the way his words slurred from out his bloodied and swollen face, laughter like the scraping of metal on metal, fervent whispers crying out softly for an end to the pain as he floated into unconsciousness.

The demons and the Venatori came in droves, and in droves Samahl’s conjured flames reduced them to a smoking pile of nothing. The Veil was torn open. His magic was more powerful that it could ever be in the present day. His hands grew hot, then smoldered, then burned as the thoughts kept running through his head. The Iron Bull, a slumped figure, red lyrium growing from his chest, from his hands, from his gaping mouth and the hole that had once been his left eye, the soft sound of the man’s name on Samahl’s lips, the eerie silence of the dead qunari’s reply. Sera, spooked from the cell door as they approached, denial after denial after denial, _a trap_ she said _not real_ she said, the stuck door of her cell condemning her to a slow death, the blinding fear in her eyes, the defeat in her posture. Vivienne, her voice hollow with the habit of wit without the substance of real feeling, her eyes sunken and dark, clothes tattered and dirty, _you must fix this_ she said with tears in her eyes _don’t let this ever come to pass_.

Alexius was brought to his knees after fighting with Samahl and Dorian and Solas and Vivienne and Leliana. The man had surrendered, admitted his defeat, but Samahl couldn’t accept it. The man’s throat bobbed frightened beneath the grasp of Samahl’s blackened fingers, tight with rage as his eyes burned into the magister’s. _You tortured my friends. You left them to die._ There was no defense the man could give to stop the dagger that the boy drove into his heart. There were no words to describe how Samahl felt as he stood glaring into the man’s face as his heart writhed from the fatal injury and the blood poured from his chest and gurgled up from his mouth. Samahl’s hand was soaked in the magister’s blood when the man’s eyes finally glassed over and his body went limp. But what did the boy feel? Horror, yes. Panic, yes. Regret, yes. It crossed his mind that perhaps a demon had, in fact, possessed him. But no; his actions were his own. He had killed a man,a man who had surrendered. He wanted to feel grief, feel terrible for doing so. But there was no grief, there was no guilt. In fact, a part of Samahl felt justified.

Dorian pulled him away from the magister’s body.

 _I’m sorry_ , Samahl had said hollowly.

Dorian had no words. He worked on his spell to return them to their time in silence. Samahl didn’t feel real anymore, like a ghost watching himself in a dream. The demons came, slaughtering Solas and Vivienne. _Don’t move_ , Dorian instructed. _Or we all die!_ The demons murdered Leliana. _Don’t move, Sam!_ He wasn’t moving. His friends were dead. What was he feeling? He was feeling absolutely nothing. Did that make him a monster?

‘I don’t want to talk about it,” Samahl finally answered Varric.

“You sure?” The dwarf offered softly. “Talking about it might make it not hurt so much…”

“The damage is done,” Samahl murmured, more to himself than anyone. “If you want to help, just be sure that future never comes to pass.”

“If you say so, big fella…” Varric sighed, getting up from the bed. “But if you ever need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

The dwarf headed for the door, opening it to leave but them hesitating, turning back around. “I just worry about you, alright? I don’t want to see that happy, good-hearted kid I met in the Valley get warped by circumstance. No matter what happens, Sammy, I’ll always be on your side. Remember that, will ya?”

The boy was silent, and in that silence, Varric walked through the door and shut it behind him. As the quiet settled in once more, Samahl had the uncontrollable urge to cry. He couldn’t, however. His eyes had long since dried up. His hands pained him as if they were still engulfed in flame; Dorian’s latest dose of healing magic was beginning to wear off. But instead of getting up to find the mage, Samahl fell back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. His eyes got heavy, and there wasn’t a single thought to spook them back wide. The Inquisition had the mages now. In a day or two, the Breach would be closed. Thedas would be saved. More likely than not, Samahl would run off with the Bull’s Chargers, get away from the chantry and the ex-templars before they could get their Circles up and running again, and toss the poor boy inside of one. Samahl’s eyes drooped shut. Krem would make a big deal out of his first time drinking their ale. Bull would show him how to be a fearless warrior. And no matter who they sent to drag Samahl to a Circle, there was no chance they’d get past the Chargers.

For the first time in a week, the poor boy actually fell asleep.

When Samahl awoke, Haven was still quiet, but this time was due to the fact that everyone was asleep. But none of that mattered. The young elf felt like a whole new person! Immediately, he sprang from his bed to his feet. His body felt as light as feathers; his eyes were bright and alert; his mind was fast and efficient and free of bothersome worry. Not even the blinding pain in his severely burnt hands could mar his sudden good mood. Then he remembered the events of the horrible future he had visited. His shoulders fell a bit, his mouth turned down into a frown. He remembered the anger he had felt, beyond his control to reign back in. He sat back on the bed. He remembered the nothingness he had felt as he killed Alexius and watched him die. Samahl hung his head. _Never again_ , he told himself. He remembered Varric’s words from earlier: _I don’t want to see that happy, good-hearted kid I met in the Valley get warped by circumstance_. There was no going back to being the Samahl he used to be, not now, not without Elgara at his side. But there was still hope for the Samahl who would walk away from the Inquisition. _Never again_ , Samahl thought once more, with more conviction. He got to his knees on the floor, folded his hands on the bed, slipping into Elven.

“ _Creators, hear my prayer. I pray to you, Elgar’nan, the All-Father, for your favor and your blessing; I pray to you, Mythal, the All-Mother, for your love to touch my heart; I pray to you Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt, so that I may not go hungry; I pray to you Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper, so that I shall never grow cold; I pray to you June, God of the Craft, so that my blade may always be quick and sharp; I pray to you Ghilan’nain, Mother of the Halla, so that I may never be lost amongst your forests; I pray to you Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets, so that with your gift of knowledge I shall never grow arrogant; I pray to you Fen’Harel, The Dread Wolf, for your cunning and heart; and I pray to you Falon’Din, The Guide, so that when my time comes I may join my ancestors in the Beyond._ ”

When he raised his head, Samahl felt a thousand times better. He thought of his sister while he remained on his knees. She would want him to do better. _The fools and the wise alike make mistakes, da’len_ , she had told him more than once. _It is learning from these mistakes that set the wise apart from the fools who continue to make them._

Cassandra awoke early to the sound of steel. At first, this startled her, fearing that Haven had fallen under attack while she slept, or that the addition of the rebel mages had sparked some conflict between them and the Inquisition’s ex-Templars. But as she sat bolt upright in bed, she realized that the sound was of a single blade alone, echoing in the stillness before dawn. Curious and not entirely happy, the Seeker made herself decent and strapped on her sword and shield before heading out the door of her quarters, making her way to the training grounds outside of Haven’s gates. The air was thick and warm as summer began to edge into the far end of spring, and the day was sure to be muggy and unbearable once the sun came up. Cassandra frowned as she noticed the usual guards at the gate were absent, though continuing on her way all the same. Shoving aside the hulking oaken doors of Haven, she emerged onto the training grounds to find Samahl, sword swinging around as he went back and forth between attacking two dummies. His swordsmanship was still amateur, but his execution was as pure as it could be. His attacks were rather sluggish, however, and Cassandra noted the grimace that came to his face with every movement of the sword in his hands.

“Sam, what are you doing?” She kept her voice low, as not to disturb the utter stillness of the pre-dawn.

“Training, Lady Cassandra…” The reply matched the Seeker’s tone, and he swung his sword overhead, gathering momentum with the sword’s path of travel and bringing it down in a wide sweep, the blade biting deep into the neck of the training dummy; Samahl let go of the sword immediately after the contact, wringing his hands, the sword sticking in place.

“ _Fenedhis lasa.._!” Samahl bit out under his breath, pulling off his gloves to look at his raw, blistered hands.

Cassandra couldn’t help but cringe a little. “Dorian told me what happened…”

“It’s alright,” The boy sighed, his hands beginning to glow a frosty bluish hue as he cast a cold spell through both hands. “You see, in that future Ser Pavus and I ended up in, the Breach had never been stopped in any way, and it had grown until the whole Veil was torn down, leaving the Fade to merge with the physical world. That made our magic all the more potent, which while worked in Dorian’s favor… I just don’t have the same magical resistance, not yet…”

“So… normally… in this time...?”

“I wouldn’t burn my hands,” The boy answered, ceasing his spell and pulling his gloves back on. “I know it’s true. I used to practice magic every day with my parents, and then some with my sister. With my parents, it was like living in a dream. Their magic was fueled by a powerful love, El used to say, the sort that attracted spirits of compassion and affection. But that made my sister afraid, when we were alone; afraid that her magic would attract _other_ spirits, the kind that weren't so friendly. So she kept our magic practice to a minimum, just for campfires, wards in the night, stuff she trusted but didn’t trust me to do. She was always so frightened… she was my age when our parents disappeared, you know… working with the Inquisition is one thing… I couldn’t imagine traveling Thedas with my baby brother…”

“You were lucky to have her,” Cassandra’s voice came across all somber and low. “And she was lucky to have you, too. Not everyone is meant to be alone in the world…”

“No one is meant to be alone…” I corrected with a heavy sigh, yanking my sword from the dummy. “Care to join me in a bit of sparring? I’m getting tired of these dummies. I feel like they’re going easy on me…”

The Seeker gave a short, breathy laugh, drawing her sword. “They do that to me too. Just remember the rules of sparring with me, Sam.”

“I know I know,” Th boy rolled his eyes as he took a ready stance, twirling the blade in his hand in anticipation. “If I use bad form, you’ll have me on the ground and then I’ll be running laps around Haven.”

“In full armor,” Cassandra reminded with a playful grin.

Samahl groaned. “Yes ma’am…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff's about to go down. Strap on your boots!!


	10. The Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the mages part of the Inquisition, Samahl is finally ready to close the Breach. Or is he..?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in the process of editing. Thanks for your understanding!!

Solas observed the buzz distantly, watching as the rebel mages gathered in the training grounds outside of Haven’s gates, watching as the Inquisition soldiers dashed about to get armor and weapons and form ranks. He watched as Cullen barked at his men and Cassandra barked louder. Leliana and her agents moved quietly through the chaos, ever the disciplined lot. For Solas, it all eluded a sense of nostalgia, from the days that he would have been in Cullen’s shoes, or perhaps Cassandra’s. Now, he was a bystander, watching history move around him and not having to lift a figure to be a part of it.

“Aren’t you worried, Solas darling?” Vivienne approached the elf, Dorian at her side; they, too, were avoiding getting trampled.

“What for?” He answered evenly, as always bristling a bit at the first enchanter.

“For our dear Sam, of course.”

Solas could see there was no game behind the woman’s eyes, not on this occasion. Today, she was genuine and straightforward about her true feelings. Solas dropped his guard.

“I am always worried.” Solas’ gaze shifted to the courtyard before the gates, where Blackwall as helping strap the small elf into his armor, while Varric gave him a pep talk. The dwarf’s words brought a smile to the boy’s face, which was pale from anxiety.

“I’m not overly concerned,” Dorian said matter-of-factly with a gaudy wave of his hand. “With the rebel mages’ aid, our Sam will be able to close up that hole in the sky, no problem.”

“It’s not the closing of the Breach that concerns me, Pavus. Not any longer.” Vivienne sighed, her eyes too drifting to Sam in the courtyard. The boy looked over, smiling and waving as he spotted his friends; the first enchanter put on her brightest smile and waved daintily back. “It’s this Elder One. It’s the future you and our darling Sam experienced.”

“Exactly,” Solas nodded. “Closing the Breach won’t stop the Elder One, whoever or whatever he is. Worse, it may draw his attention.”

“One crisis at a time, please.” Dorian rolled his eyes. “Today, we’re closing the Breach. I’m sure once that’s done, we’ll have plenty of time to put up our feet and drink that vinegar the bartender calls wine before we have to plan for this Elder One.”

“Hush darling,” Vivienne warned gently. “He’s coming this way. Put on a smile.”

“Hi Ms. Vivienne! Ser Pavus!” Samahl greeted cheerily as he approached, his smile as bright as his polished armor, adorned with the Inquisition crest; he turned his smile to Solas. “ _Ma ghilan_.”

“ _Lethallin_ ,” Solas nodded in reply, unable help but smile just a tad at his special greeting.

“Darling, are you quite sure you feel comfortable doing this?” Vivienne asked as her hands worked skillfully to straighten a few pieces of armor that had eluded Blackwall’s less detail-oriented eye. “There’s no shame in delaying if you aren’t ready. The mages are here, and they’re not going anywhere… unfortunately.”

The boy’s eyes practically sparkled, Samahl having been filled with something of a new life since being able to sleep once more. “No time like the present, ma’am!”

“We’ll be right at your side, should you need us, oh mighty Herald!” Dorian winked, arms folded across his chest in an easy posture. “Just be careful, would you? I’m embarrassed to say I’ve grown a bit too fond of you.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, Dorian.” Samahl shook his head, unable to help but chortle a bit to himself beneath a falsified layer of seriousness. “Though I can’t guarantee confidentiality from Madame de Fer.”

“Naturally,” Vivienne smiled, pulling the boy into her side gently by his head, a sort of hug, then pinching his nose with an impish smile.

“Solas, help!!” Samahl’s voice came out all nasally with Vivienne trapping him so, riddled with giggles.

“Come now. While there’s still light. The Breach remains, _da’len_. We haven’t fixed it yet.”

“Interesting,” Dorian smirked. “Who knew it’d be the apostate hobo who’d be the stick in the mud and _not_ —what’s that name the dwarf gave you?—Iron Lady…?”

“Who knew it’d be the Tevinter so-and-so to make such dull and shallow observations?” Vivienne countered dryly as she released Samahl from her playful grip and set about fixing the boy’s hair instead.

“Dorian,” Samahl cocked his head, knowing grin teasing his innocent features. “Why does Varric call you Sparkler? Is it on account of all the glitter, or is something going over my head?”

“My dear, most everything goes over your head. Due to both your age _and_ your height.”

“Are we quite finished?” Solas sighed impatiently.

“ _Ir abelas, lethallin_ ,” Samahl offered as he dodged Vivienne’s fussing hands. “I won’t delay any longer.”

With that, the small boy ran off to meet up with Cassandra and Cullen, informing them of his readiness to march to the Breach. The three mages watched as they kept to themselves.

“He really looks up to you, Solas,” Dorian said, all seriousness. “I saw it, when the two of us were sent to that dark future. He was nothing more than a dervish of fear and panic until we ran into the version of you in that time. It didn’t matter how many times I told him we going to get back to our own time; the moment that time’s Solas said it, Sam was as soothed and obedient as he could be.”

“I know,” Solas replied quietly, somberly. “I know…”

The march through the valley was slow, everyone’s steps growing more reluctant with each inch. For the rebel mages, it was the closest they had ever been to the Breach in the sky, and each step broke that record all over again. For the Inquisition soldiers, the valley held memories of endless demons and the utter chaos that ensued from the explosion at the Conclave.  Samahl, on the other hand, couldn’t help but have his thoughts wander to when he and his sister had first passed through the valley, on their way to the Conclave. The burn of his legs as they trudged up the mountain, the hum in his ears of the seemingly endless lines of Templars and mages alike filing into the temple, his sister’s hand extended to him, her grip strong and warm and soft and familiar. _Not much further_ , she had said. She should have said _not much longer_. If only they had known…. If only everyone had known…

The flaring of the mark on his hand drew Samahl’s attention back to reality, and his eyes drew instead to the much more attention-grabbing Breach in the sky, quiet as it had been since the boy’s first attempt to close it, but still swirling, still a huge gaping whole into the Fade. And for a moment, everything stood still. The whole world was just Samahl and the Breach. A worm of doubt wiggled into his thoughts. What if he couldn’t close it, not even with the help of the mages? The thought paved the way for a thousand other thoughts, each more troubling than the last. What would happen if the Breach wasn’t ever closed? Would it destroy Thedas? Would the mark kill him? What would the Inquisition do with him if he couldn’t even close the Breach? Where would he go if they turned him away? Would life be worth continuing at that point?

A hand fell on his shoulder.

“Talk to me, big fella.” Varric’s voice was soft, reassuring.

“What if I still can’t close it…?”

“Well… you got it _this_ far without any help. Remember just how swirly and angry it was before you stopped it from growing?”

“Yeah…”

“And now you’ve got a couple hundred mages willing to let you draw from their power… or whatever it is you’re going to do. I think that’ll be enough to close it, don’t you?”

“But what if it _doesn’t_ …??”

“What if I turned into a frog and danced a jig?” Varric shook his head. “Point is, you can’t think through every scenario that could possibly come to pass, Sammy. That’s a sure-fire way to drive yourself bonkers.”

“But—…”

“Just do your best. If you do that much… well, then there’s no reason to think things could have gone better.”

Samahl sighed, nodding a bit as he pulled himself back together. “Okay…. Okay, yeah. I’ll just… I’ll try my best then…”

No one uttered a word as they ascended the summit, and no one said a word as the soldiers took up rank outside the remains of the temple and the mages filed inside. Samahl reached the entrance with Varric, spotting Cassandra awaiting them.

“Varric, wait out here with the rest of the soldiers,” she said not unkindly.

“But—”

“We don’t know how safe it will be in to be in proximity to the Breach when we attempt to close it. At least out here, what walls remain will provide some shelter. And if something were to go wrong, you’ll be the first I call.”

“It’ll be okay,” Samahl smiled at his dwarf friend; he wondered to himself if he really meant it.

Varric seemed to buy it, nodding with a hint of a sad smile before heading off to join The Iron Bull and his Chargers, where Sera and Blackwall were caught up in a heated battle of who-can-give-the-best-stink-eye.

“I hope the bouncer will let us in,” Dorian chuckled to himself as he, Vivienne, and Solas all caught up with Samahl.

“We are mages, and this is to be a ritual of magic,” Solas replied. “I imagine the Seeker will allow us to be present.”

Vivienne shuddered. “If it was _anyone_ else in the middle of all this madness, I would stay well away.”

“My my! Has our dear Sam actually _warmed_ that icy heart of yours, Madame de Fer?” Dorian’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

“It’s not attachment, Dorian darling. It’s simply a desire to see the poor boy protected from those who would elevate him up as legend.”

“Jealousy, then?”

Vivienne rolled her eyes. “Have you met many legends, Dorian? No? That’s because such people don’t last very long. They tend to die for the cause that lifted them in the first place.”

“Isn’t the Hero of Ferelden alive..?”

“Breathing, perhaps, but alive? Truly? I think not.”

“She is right, of course,” Solas interjected. “The sooner Samahl’s role in the Inquisition comes to an end, the better.”

“If you say so…” Dorian shook his head to himself.

The Breach, though quiet, was still as ominous and intimidating as ever. Dark eerie clouds swirled slowly around it, and flashes of green threaded their tendrils through the sky like a sickness spreading in veins. The hole in the sky, nothing but a maw of gaping blackness, the nothingness beyond enough turn anyone’s blood to ice. To everyone, it was just another terror, another problem in need of fixing. But to Samahl, it was far more. The mark of his hand came alive as he approached the breach. The very energy in the air stirred like a gust of wind the closer the boy ventured to the heart of the Breach on the ground. The elf stared down at his hand, feeling the disturbed magic from his fingertips to his jaw, buzzing the innate magic within him. His eyes weren’t the only ones fixed on the mark; all the mages, all his friends, everyone was wondering, worrying; what would become of the mark if they succeeded in sealing the Breach? Would it disappear? Would it remain? Would it kill poor Samahl in the process?

“I’m ready…” Samahl’s voice was small but unshaken as he addressed Cassandra, the Seeker’s gaze the only one he was well aware of.

“Are you sure…?” The Seeker realized her hesitation was due to her own apprehensions.

“I’m as sure as I’ve ever been.”

The boy wasn’t sure if it was magic at work, but despite all his anxiety, all the worst case scenarios, all that was at stake, he was utterly calm. He was aware of every heartbeat in his chest, every breath that came and left his lungs, every last hair standing up on his arms and back of his neck, every humming fiber of the world around him.

_Creators, hear my prayer._

Cassandra nodded to Solas, who stood by attentively to guide the mages in their powering of Samahl’s mark.

_I pray to you, Elgar’nan, the All-Father, for your favor and your blessing…_

“Mages!” Solas commanded, raising his staff. “Focus past the Herald!”

_I pray to you, Mythal, the All-Mother, for your love to touch my heart…_

“Let his will draw from yours!”

_I pray to you Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt, so that I may not go hungry…_

The mages threw down their staffs to the ground, taking a crouch as they focused as Solas instructed.

_I pray to you Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper, so that I shall never grow cold…_

Samahl felt their will as he approached the center of the Breach, the sheer magical discharge from the great gap in the Veil whipping up a powerful wind.

_I pray to you June, God of the Craft, so that my blade may always be quick and sharp…_

The mark flared blindingly bright, the energy running from his fingertips to his jaw like a fire, hot and bright.

_I pray to you Ghilan’nain, Mother of the Halla, so that I may never be lost amongst your forests…_

The boy’s steps came one by one, each forced to beat the elements drawn against him.

_I pray to you Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets, so that with your gift of knowledge I shall never grow arrogant…_

Samahl planted his feet, holding his position strongly as he felt his hands physically shaking from the sheer power of the mark so close to its Breach.

_I pray to you Fen’Harel, The Dread Wolf, for your cunning and heart…_

He pulled his hand up above his head, the breath in his lungs pushed from his body as the connection was made, magic like a rush of adrenaline pushing into the mark, fueled by the mages.

_And I pray to you Falon’Din, The Guide; I’m ready to meet my ancestors…_

The light from the connection grew so bright that Samahl was in a world of white light, feeling nothing but the magic rushing through him a flooded river. _This is it_ , he thought, the voice in his head small but the center of all calm in the universe.

_I’m ready…_

There was a sound, so loud it must have filled the entire world with its volume. Then in an instant, there was nothing but silence, so perfect and complete that Samahl knew it couldn’t be of this world. It lasted what seemed like an eternity, that silence, and the darkness that accompanied it. But then, the silence gave way for a thick and incessant ringing, like waves washing ashore, the ebb and flow of the sound. But there was something else in the ringing, soft and muffled, taking shape and clarity the longer Samahl lay in the darkness until he could finally make out words.

“Sam!! Sam!!”

There was a sudden awareness of his eyes, shut tight. He willed them open, and the lids parted slowly, coming to focus on the hovering face of Cassandra Pentaghast, brown knotted in worry, eyes sharp, mouth drawn into a tight line.

“Am I dead…?” Samahl’s voice sounded odd and distant to his ears.

The Seeker let out a relieved laugh, shaking her head as her strong arms pulled Sam up from where he lay on the ground into the cold metal of her chest plate, smothering him in a hug.

“No!” She laughed, the waver of a suppressed sob of relief in her voice. “No, you’re not! You’re alive!”

“I’m alive..?” Samahl felt himself pulled back, looking groggily into the eyes of the Seeker, hand coming up to knock at his ears which still rung something awful.

“Yes!” Cassandra grinned, getting to her feet and hoisting the small boy to his. “And the Breach is closed! You did it, Sam! You did it!”

“Samahl, are you quite alright..?” It was Solas’ voice, or rather, Solas himself; Samahl had a hard time figure that little detail out. “Did the mark injure you in any way..?”

Samahl stared into the face of the elf, coming quite quickly to his senses upon noticing just how concerned his friend seemed. His eyes turned to his hand, where the mark remained, but quiet.

“No,” He answered. “No… I think I’m okay…”

He turned to look at the mages, who all waited tentatively as they, too, recovered from the blast of the closing Breach. Their eyes turned skyward, and they found their hard work rewarded. The soldiers outside the temple were cheering. The mages began cheering too. A grin spread on Samahl’s face, and shortly after it came the happy tears from his eyes.

How long had he been worrying about what would happen once the Breach was closed? How many nights did he lay awake with the concerns of “What then?” plaguing his head?

No longer. The soldiers flooded the temple, still cheering. Samahl beamed, swept off his face as Iron Bull hoisted him up on his shoulders. The Chargers were cheering the loudest. Suddenly, his name was the sound that filled the air, chanted by hundreds of voices, the sound of victory heard with each _Sam!_ that sounded. It filled the air of the valley as the Inquisition marched back to Haven. It filled the air of Haven as those who stayed behind joined the chant as they met the soldiers and the mages at the gates. The chanting died down, but the name still sounded, a cry of victory, with each cask that was opened and drained by the thirsty and celebrating.

Samahl watched the celebration as they day grew late, smiling endlessly as he observed the drunken dancing and uproarious laughter of those at Haven. Their hiccupped voices joined disharmoniously in their favorite tavern songs. For a split second, everything was absolute perfect. And all it took was a split second to throw everything back into chaos.

Warning bells.

The shiver-inducing sound of a thousand armor-clad Templars marching in unison.

The screams of those who scrambled to take shelter or take up arms.

To Samahl, it felt like a nightmare. But no matter how many times he blinked his eyes, he couldn’t wake up. And for the first time, a thought came genuinely to the boy’s mind:

“Maker have mercy…”


	11. Halam'shivanas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven is under attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in the process of being edited. Thanks for your understanding!! :)

Voices shouting to be heard over the din, brimming with command and fear. The steady drumbeat-roll of feet marching, drawing louder, closer. The smattering of footsteps, like raindrops in a downpour, sounding everywhere and every which way, frantic and scattered. Screams of those inside the walls, desperate for the safety that had been so hastily pulled out from under them, the fervent prayers of the Chantry sisters as natural for them as the breath in their lungs.

Samahl heard many things in the chaos, but his eyes only ever saw one: The Elder One, perched high above his army of Templars, his twisted, misshapen face stretching in what could only be described as a malicious smile. The creature’s eyes turned from his army, from Haven, and locked on with Samahl’s. Time stood still, if only for a moment. But it only took a moment for the boy to find full clarity. The Elder One comes for him, and him alone, but should Haven stand in the way, it will fall.

A hand grabbed suddenly to Samahl’s armored shoulder, whirling him around to come face to face with Cullen.

“Sam, you need to get out of here!” He was screaming, screaming so loud, but Samahl could hardly hear him. “Go to the Chantry! Take shelter with the others! Go! _Go_!!!”

“I can fight, Commander..!” The words came from the boy’s mouth, but they sounded as distant and foreign to him as another man’s voice. “Let me fight!”

“I don’t need you to fight, I need you to be safe!” The man’s voice cut short as he looked up, drawing his sword quite suddenly.

Samahl turned to see what had startled the Commander, looking just in time to see a huge brutish Templar fall to the ground dead at his feet, a thin figure of a young man hidden beneath a large hat brandishing the killing blade. He looked up, approaching the boy skittishly but with purpose.

“I’m Cole,” He said, slightly out of breath. “I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know…”

Cullen cut in. “What’s the meaning of this?! What’s going on!?”

The commander began to approach the young man, sword drawn, but Samahl held him back with a stiff arm and firm footing.

“Please…” Samahl added as he looked to Cole, who while frightened of Cullen’s sudden hostility, seemed to calm back down.

“The Templars come to kill you...” His voice was low, sorrowful.

“Templars?!” Cullen bristled visibly, causing Cole to take a jump back. “Is this the order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?!”

“The Red Templars went to the Elder One,” Cole turned his gaze to Samahl. “You know him? He knows _you._ You took his mages.”

Cole pointed up the mountain, to where the monstrous Elder One stood over his army. “He’s very angry you took his mages…”

“Commander…?” Samahl turned to look to Cullen, feeling his pulse racing out of control, growing dizzy from the sheer magnitude of the situation.

“Go to the Chantry,” He repeated, face grim. “Keep yourself safe. Haven is no fortress, but if we can control the battle…”

“The catapults?” The boy offered shakily. “You could… you could use them to damage the bulk of the force, while it still has yet to reach Haven…”

“Yes,” Cullen nodded as his eyes trailed over the seemingly endless wave of Templars approaching. “Don’t worry. We’ll handle things down here Sam. Please…”

“The Chantry,” Samahl nodded in resignation. “I’m going. Mr. Cole, you can come too, if you want.”

Cole nodded, silently following after Samahl as the two of them retreated back inside the gates of Haven. Soldiers rushed past them as they hurried to obey Cullen and Cassandra’s orders. Pilgrims and other villagers in Haven scattered to find shelter. Samahl stopped dead in his tracks, feeling a horrible notion that things were bound to go south. He had seen what the Elder One was capable of.

“Cole, help me gather up everyone in Haven who isn’t fighting. Send them to the Chantry.”

Cole nodded, needing no explanation a he seemed to disappear into thin air. Samahl hardly noticed, hurrying to each and every hut and tent, searching for every last terrified face cowering in some corner of Haven. How many were there? It seemed every place Samahl cleared, he found more people there only minutes later. It didn’t help that the din of the battle outside the gates grew deafening loud. Every new person Samahl found, he was yelling at the top of his lungs: _Go to the Chantry! You’re not safe here!_

The breathless boy was milling about, trying to retrace his steps, trying to make sure he didn’t forget anyone, when the sound of jangling metal armor and drawing swords caught his attention. _They’re over the wall_ , he thought plainly, his heart dropping into his stomach. How terrifying were the Red Templars! The corrupted lyrium jutting from their armor, from their faces, growing until it drug them down on one side, drove their minds savage. Even the Templars who weren’t visibly corrupt gave us the foul energy from the red lyrium in their veins. The group over the wall spotted Samahl, who stood his ground, absolutely terrified but not about to run.

They charged, yelling like beasts.

Samahl drew in a deep breath and set them all on fire. It didn’t stop half of them. The yelling grew painful and more rabid, and the boy’s hand fumbled to draw his sword, just in time to hold it up to the heavy swing of a Templar’s sword. The clash of the swords rang sharply in his ears, and the vibration of the sword jarred up through his arm and hurt something terrible. Not waiting for the next swing, Samahl took advantage of the man’s surprise at not hacking the boy in two and swung his sword into the back of the Templar’s knee, where the armor gapped. The blade made a sickening sound as it ripped through flesh, coupled with the agonized screams of the man as he collapsed to the ground. For a second, Samahl was ensnared by the horror of the moment, eyes wide as he stared at the faceless helmet and tried to imagine the face beneath. _Did he looked like Cullen_ , Samahl wondered.

And then a Templar Horror was on top of him, slamming Samahl back in its charge and throwing the boy to the ground. In his terror, Samahl managed to throw up a barrier, blocking the savage creature’s attempt to kill the poor boy, but only for a short while. Even a Templar Horror was still a Templar, and the monstrosity used its training to strengthen reality and do away with Samahl’s crude barrier. There was nothing left to do; Samahl picked up his sword and ran as fast as he could, crying in sheer panic at the sound of the footsteps racing to catch up with him. Then the flash of lightning and the sizzle of flesh. Samahl turned, tripping over himself as he did, the Templar Horror pursuing him nothing more than a pile of ash. A hand reached out and steadied him, and the boy whirled back around at the touch.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Chantry?” Dorian chided. “You know, where it’s safe?”

Samahl opened his mouth to explain himself, or thank his friend, or—he didn’t know. Nothing ever came out, drowned by a scream loud and clear from outside of Haven.

“ _Take cover!!!!_ ”

A bestial scream tore through the sky like thunder as a shadow fell over Haven like a sudden night; and as sudden as the darkness came, just as quickly came the hot red light of the flames breathed onto the building and tents and siege weaponry of the settlement. Samahl shielded his eyes, no needing to look to know from the tips of the hairs standing on his neck to the pit in his stomach what had just happened.

“ _Kaffas_!!” Dorian swore in panic, the friendly hand on Samahl’s shoulder gripping the boy’s chainmail and dragging him towards the Chantry. “Come on Sam!! We need to take shelter, _now_!!”

The boy elf needed no further prompting, making a mad dash for the sturdy building with the Tevinter mage, unable to help but continuing looking around for people in need of rescuing. Everything was burning. Everything was obscured by smoke. How quickly Haven was laid to waste by the dragon’s onslaught. Cullen’s voice was echoing, hoarse and loud and fervent, calling for a retreat, calling for everyone to get to the Chantry. How few soldiers poured back through the gates. Too many Templars were breaching the homemade barriers around the settlement. _All because The Elder One wants me_ , Samahl thought. The guilt sat heavily in the pit of his stomach, slowed his feet.

“Samahl!”

He turned at the sound of his name, spotting Solas who was heading for the Chantry as well.

“You _must_ make yourself safe!!” The elf caught up with the boy, searching the terrified expression on Samahl’s face for some semblance of comprehension. “Quickly!”

“We’re going to die, aren’t we…?” The words were quiet, hardly heard above the din of battle, but Samahl didn’t have the courage to speak them any louder.

Solas didn’t reply, taking the small boy by the hand and covering the short distance to the Chantry building, where Chancellor Roderick invited all inside, held up by Cole’s supportive arms. Samahl stared at the Chancellor’s robes, at the crimson blood staining the perfect whites. He shut his eyes from the sight, but behind his eyelids he saw the entirety of Haven bathed in the same color, saw it on his hands when he had killed Alexius in the dark future, saw the blood everywhere. Solas kept him walking, further into the Chanty, and helped Samahl sit down off to the side.

Dorian came over immediately, having arrived just before the two elves. “Are you alright Sam? Did you get hurt?”

The boy hardly had time to shake his head in response when he was on his feet, staring as Cullen and Cassandra and all the rest came running in, covered in blood, breathless, exhausted. He began to approach, but stopped himself when he noticed their expressions. Defeat. Fear. Anger. His heart stopped beating for a moment or two. The group dispersed as the doors shut behind them, heavy and loud and echoing in the high-ceilinged building. Chancellor Roderick had been at the entrance, stepping through the threshold as two Inquisition soldiers shut the large oaken doors, trapping the Templars outside but the entirety of Haven—or what was left of it—inside. Solas stepped quickly, approaching Cullen.

“Commander, what’s going on out there?”

Cullen shook his head angrily, his hand gripped tightly to his shoulder and slicked with blood.

“Our position isn’t good,” He gritted out. “That dragon stole back any time our catapults had earned us…”

Cole had been helping Roderick into a chair, turning at the mention of the dragon. “I’ve seen an Archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like _that_.”

“I don’t care what it looks like!” Cullen huffed ill-temperedly. “It cut a path for that army! They’ll kill _everyone_ in Haven!”

Cole shook his head gently. “The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald.”

Both Cullen and Solas’ eyes fell to Samahl, who still sat against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest as best as his armor would allow.

“Cole,” Samahl’s voice was small, but sure. “If the Elder One _gets_ what he wants, if he gets me, will it save all these people..?”

“Don’t be so short-sighted, _da’len_!” The snappiness of Solas’ tone was quite foreign to Samahl.

The boy looked to Cole, awaiting an answer.

Cole shook his head. “It won’t. He wants to kill you; no one else matters, but he’ll crush them, kill them anyway. I don’t like him…”

“You don’t _like_ —!?” Cullen let out a growl of frustration, wincing as he tried to throw up his hands and irritated his shoulder wound; his eyes drifted between Samahl and Solas. “There are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. If we could fire that last trebuchet, cause one last slide…”

“We’re overrun,” Solas countered unhappily. “To hit the enemy, we’d bury Haven, and all those inside.”

Cullen looked to the elf mournfully. “We’re dying, but we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.”

Samahl hadn’t been paying the conversation much attention, his eyes instead focused on Chancellor Roderick. The man was dying; Cole had said so, and Samahl could sense the Chancellor’s energy growing weaker by the second. How strange that this man, who had always despised poor Samahl, always been openly against him and the Inquisition, could evoke such sadness out of the small elf’s heart as he died. An old woman in Clan Lavellan had died years ago, a woman who had always been bitter and spiteful with Samahl. He had been overjoyed to hear the news that she was dead. But when he saw her family cry, the people who knew her and loved her, he too broke down into tears. The tears shed in Haven were few, but the sadness lingered like a plague over the people trapped in the Chantry. Roderick turned to look down into the Chantry, eyes fixing hazily at some point. Cole was watching the Chancellor, just as Samahl was.

“Yes… _that_..!” Cole whispered, turning to Cullen and Solas and raising his voice. “Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to say it before he dies.”

The dying man drew in a raspy breath. “There _is_ a path… you wouldn’t know it, unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage, as I have…”

With a sudden burst of renewed strength, he managed to stand from his chair, eyes falling in Samahl. “The people _can_ escape. She must have shown me! _Andraste_ must have shown me so I could… t-tell you…!”

The boy was on his feet, hurrying to Cullen in excitement. “Will it work, Cullen? Can the people really escape..?”

“Possibly… but the Templars will surely run us down, no matter how fast we flee.”

“No they won’t.” Samahl drew in a slow breath, eyes turning hard as he stared at the doors. “Not if someone buries them in one last avalanche.”

“No!” Solas interjected firmly. “To man the catapult is _din'anshiral_ , _da’len_. I will not allow it!”

“And I will not allow these people to be slaughtered because the Elder One came for _me_!!” The anger in Samahl’s voice was sudden and intense, shocking both Solas and Cullen into a lapse of silence. “Cole said it: The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald. He only wants me. It can only be me who stops him! If I escape with everyone else, he’ll come after me and kill everyone in doing so! This is the _only_ way!!”

There was no response from either man as Samahl turned and headed for the door, hand on his sword as he fought back the tears in his eyes. “Cullen, promise me you’ll keep these people safe.”

“Sam…”

“Promise me!!”

“I—… I promise…”

“How long do you need..?”

“If you can, try and keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line.”

Samahl nodded, afraid that if he said another word, he’d break down sobbing.

“You’ll die, _da’len_ …” There was something so terribly heartbreaking in Solas’ plain words that seemed to mirror the pain Samahl himself felt at the thought of Haven dying because of him. For Solas, the small boy was the only thing in Haven that truly mattered. Perhaps the only thing in the world.

“ _Banal nadas, lethallin_ …” Samahl replied, voice hardly above a whisper; _nothing is certain_.

He drew his sword with that iconic, crisp sound. His breath inhaled sharply through his teeth. His free hand gripped the heavy oak of the door and tore it open with all his strength, succeeding in making a gap just large enough for him to slip through. He heard the sound of Varric’s voice, clear and indignant:

“What’s going—!?”

The door shut with a heavy _thump_ , leaving Samahl alone in the drumming of marching soldiers, the vicious roar of burning buildings, and the piercing cry of the Archdemon overhead. For a moment, time stood still, carving the horrific image of Haven into the back of Samahl’s mind. And with a mighty force of will, the boy pushed free from the everlasting moment and took off running down the path, mind focused on one thing and one thing alone: _If I’m going to die here, the Elder One is going to die with me!_


	12. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samahl survived his encounter with Corypheus, but it seems he may not survive for very much longer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in the process of being edited. Thanks for your understanding! :)

The white flowers. It was the only thought on Samahl’s unburdened mind as he wandered quietly through the field of wildflowers. The flowers bloomed pink, yellow, purple, red. But the white flowers were all the boy plucked from their roots and gathered up in his arms. _The white flowers, da’len_. It was if the thought, the memory, was shaping reality. The pink and yellow and purple and red flowers all around began to pale, metamorphosing into the very white flowers Samahl sought to gather. The boy didn’t question the peculiarity of it all, as his mind was calm, he couldn’t be fretted. Until a figure appeared in front of him quite suddenly, clad in a full suit of armor and helmet that hid the face.

“You must resist, my brave friend,” The man’s voice boomed, carrying all sorts of confidence and command.

“Pardon..?” Samahl stared at the figure in bafflement, arms still filled with the dozens of white flowers, mind still quiet.

“You cannot give up! You have fought so bravely!”

There was a stirring, a blink, a moment, where the air was hot with blazing fire and a high pitch scream filled the boy’s ears. And then the moment passed as quick as it had come. Samahl shivered; had the air always had this chill to it..?

“I’m sorry,” The elf frowned, cocking his head a bit. “Who—… who are you..?”

“I am a spirit of Valor, my boy,” The armored man answered. “I was drawn to your valorous action against the creature calling himself Corypheus.”

The man's words hit Samahl like a rock to the chest, shoving him back into the hot fiery air, the high pitched scream. He could see it now, too—remember it—the Elder One, commanding the mark on the boy’s hand, infuriating the strange magic within. And the pain! The panic came zipping back into Samahl’s still mind as quick as an arrow.

“What happened..!?” Suddenly, the field was not at all calming, caught in the flames, burning red and bright and angry.

“You are dying, valorous one,” The spirit replied, voice deep with somberness. “You must wake! You must fight!”

Air filled the small elf’s lungs suddenly as he eyes snapped open to reality. His immediate response was to sit bolt upright, but he regretted the movement instantly, falling back flat on his back. Something was wrong, inside of him. Something felt sharp when he breathed too fast, something felt like a thousand sword wounds whenever he sat upright. Not that the rest of him felt particularly great. As he carefully rolled onto his hands and knees and attempted to stand, his right ankle went limp under any amount of pressure, and his left arm felt like it was covered in pins and needles. There were bruises too, and small cuts, but after a little self-assessment, Samahl decided he wasn’t about to die, and that was reassuring to say the least.  

What had happened? The thought poked and prodded around the boy’s mind, attempting to find answers in the fuzzy memories beginning to surface. The Elder One, the mark, the Archdemon, the signal from the mountain, the release of the catapult, the avalanche…! The last thing Samahl remembered, he was running for his life as half the mountains around Haven came barreling down on him. And now he was… where? It appeared to be some sort of cave, or tunnel, perhaps having been hidden under Haven all along. It didn’t matter _where_ he was, really and truly. What mattered was he was freezing cold, shivering like a leaf in a thunderstorm, his hands and toes especially having begun to turn blue. How long had he just been laying here, unconscious in the snow? Too long, Samahl decided as he pushed himself to trudge on, limping and clutching his injured arm to his chest; not too tightly, however, as any pressure on his chest at all was agony.

The elf was slow to cover any distance, head a bit fuzzy from the impact of falling into whatever hole he found himself in, and very much occupied on all the individual spots of pain nagging and relentless across his body. And his hand… the mark glowed out of control, refusing to calm down. Samahl could only imagine that whatever Corypheus had tried to do to the mark, it had only succeeded in angering it. But the thrum of energy from fingertips to jaw was only another instrument of pain in the orchestra of agony. Each footstep was an effort. Each inch as exhausting as a journey. A single thought kept Samahl going: his friends. They were out there, somewhere. If he could just find them…

His pace picked up ever so slightly as Samahl grew accustom to his new, temporary gait. Lucky for him, the cave he found himself in was rather direct, leading one way which eventually opened up into the open countryside. Shielding his eyes from the light, the boy emerged from the cave only to find the world having gone nondescript. The ground was white with thick snow. The sky was white with a restlessness onslaught of snow. Everything in-between was a blur from the whipping blizzard. If there had ever been any trace of his friends, any sign of where they had gone, it was long gone.

How long Samahl stood there, staring out at the whitewashed outdoors, he could never be sure. His mind rushed through several stages of grief, denial, compromise. The options seemed to be few; two, to be exact: continue blindly or remain. If he remained, there was little chance anyone would come and find him; even Samahl had thought himself dead until the spirit of Valor made him aware of his own continuing existence.

Slowly, Samahl drew the knife that lay sheathed behind his back. He hardly felt the freezing cold steel across his numb, flushed flesh of his hand. The crimson bubbled forth, dripping down and coloring the snow.

“Spirit of Valor,” Samahl’s voice trembled as he felt the magic in his veins swell at his own command. “Help me find my friends.”

The blood instantly moved with a life of its own, suddenly everywhere, the boy’s vision turning red as magic and blood mingled with forbidden power, giving form to the spirit lingering in the Fade.  It was a flash, mentally blinding, and all the blood and all the magic zapped from existence, leaving Samahl staring at his hand, soaked in the hot sticky substance rolling from his palm to the ground, leaving perfect red dots in the snow. It seemed his attempts to gain wisdom from the friendly spirit had failed. Until he looked up into the way ahead. And deep in his gut, there was a sense of direction, a reassurance that _this_ way was the way to go. There wasn’t a moment to lose questioning this odd instinct. His feet tumbled forward into the knee deep snow, face planting and landing with several inches of the crunchy substance keeping him off the ground. His hands pushed to right himself, only succeeding in pushing through the snow beneath and leaving him trapped in a much more awkward position. How tempting was it to just remain and die, face burning from the intense contact of the snow. It was a struggle, but Samahl finally got back to his feet, and continued on his tumbling way towards where his gut feeling promised was the way to go.

Samahl hadn’t known what time of day he emerged from the caves, but night fell over the snow-blanketed countryside far too soon. With the dark came a bitter cold, taking its toll on the boy whose clothes were already soaked through from the snow, and whose muscles balked after hours of wading through the frozen wasteland. His mind had gone numb too, exhaustion and the cold both leeching away any ability to think, clearly or otherwise. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he mustered up every last ounce of strength to bring fire to his palms, desperate to stay warm. There was a very real doubt, the sort the brought hot and fearful tears spilling from Samahl’s eyes. The question that made his heart race and his head light was _Am I going to die here..?_

His knees gave out. The snow crunched beneath his weight as his whole body came crashing down. The impact hurt worse than anything, and Samahl cried out—half a sob, half a scream of pain—as the knife-feeling in his chest stabbed at him viciously as his weight crushed down there. A quick roll onto his back saw the pain subdued, but the damage was done. As the boy lay there, eyelids heavy, every muscle in his body convulsing in the cold, he realized what the worst part about all the snow truly was. It was the way it soaked up all sound, left the world so eerily silent. And in that moment of choking silence, Samahl let himself scream, let his lungs ascend to his throat as he cried out for help as loud as he could muster. The tears were flowing unchecked as he gasped for air, screaming for help again and again until his throat clamped up, his lungs cried for oxygen, his voice died on the air.

 _You can’t fall asleep yet Samahl._ The memory came floating to his conscious, a memory of Elgara and him traveling through Emprise du Lion when he was very young.

 _Why not?_ had been his whinny response.

_If you fall asleep in the snow, it turns you to ice. You might be cold walking around, and you might be tired, but you won’t be ice._

He couldn’t let himself pass out. He couldn’t let himself die. It was panic that gave Samahl the suddenly burst of energy to clamber to his knees, peering out into the inky night. The snow glittered like a million million stars under the pale moonlight. No one would find him cloaked in the dark as he was. His hands glowed only faintly when he tried to conjure fire to them, a testament to just how exhausted he was, now not only mentally and physically, but in terms of his magical reserves as well. No matter how hard he tried, his hands did little more than flicker with a faint fiery light. Each moment attempting to conjure the flames left Samahl twice as exhausted as the moment before. The panic started to grow, engulfing his mind, swarming his senses. His breath came in shallow and sharp from the bitter cold air, feeling devoid of oxygen. _Think Samahl_ , he screamed in his mind. _How can you stand out in the dark?_

That’s when he noticed it. The boy hadn’t noticed in the midst of his crippling fear, but the fire in his hands had grown stronger. Baffled and pleasantly surprised, Samahl turned from his panic to focus on his mysteriously stronger magic. As he did so, the fire died out to a mere glow once again. His brow furrowed in confusion, mind working slowly to understand what was going on; it hit him like a ton of bricks. Emotion fuels magic. His fear had been making his fire brighter, stronger, despite his furthered fatigue. And that gave him an idea. The feeling of pins and needles on Samahl’s skin returned with furious intensity as he forced his hands above his head, palms facing the sky. His lung drew in a bitter gulp of the frozen air, and a scream of anger tore from his lungs at full volume. And with the scream burst forth a fiery blaze into the sky, bright and hot and angry.

But it was all too much. The scream alone had zapped Samahl of any remaining energy, and the blast of magic left him overdrawn. A blackness took him and left the poor boy unconscious in the snow, hands still smoking.

Fortunately for the poor boy, fate did not desire to see him die on this day. It just so happened that fate placed a lone figure out in the blizzard-torn wilderness as well. Fate smiled, and the gesture saw to it that the figure happened to look east when Samahl created his last-dich effort of a fire blast. And the night was just clear enough, the fire just bright enough, that the figure noticed. Curiosity peaked, the cloaked figure altered their steady course, heading instead to discover the source of the sudden flames. It didn’t take them much longer than a few minutes to reach said source, peaking tentatively from around the cover of a thick patch of pines. The figure saw nothing that he expected, only a small lump of something glittering in the moonlight. They crept silently towards the shimmer, discovering it to be armor. And, of course, a small elf boy wearing it.

“Well, this is certainly unexpected,” The figure spoke to himself as his placed his hands on his hips, removing his hood as he crouched down to inspect the unconscious Samahl.

“What is a boy like yourself doing out alone in a place like this?” The figure paused a moment as if expecting an answer, then chuckled to himself. “Oh, right. I suppose it would be difficult for you to answer, being unconscious and all. Or… is it dead..?”

The man drew a blade from beneath his cloak, hovering the blade below Samahl’s nose. He watched as the boy’s breath created a small patch of condensation on the blade’s edge, the only sign that Samahl did in fact still live.

“Lucky you!” The man smiled charmingly as he sheathed his blade. “You still live! But you are quite close to death, yes? We must move quickly.”

The man scooped the slumped form of the boy up in his arms, grunting a bit at the weight and setting Samahl back down.

“Less armor would be welcome,” The man spoke conversationally as his fingers worked deftly to unstrap the heavy metal breastplate and shoulder plates from Samahl’s body, leaving them in the snow as he picked the boy back up.

“Ah yes, much better!” The man grinned, watching as Samahl stirred ever so slightly, drawing close to the warmth of the stranger. “Comfortable, are we? Good. Let us find some shelter.”

It was a long while before Samahl opened his eyes again, but when he did, he faintly felt a sense of confusion as he stared up at the rocky ceiling of a small cave. The fuzzy feeling suddenly turned into a bolt of panic that raced up the boy’s spine and made him sit bolt upright. It was a movement he regretted just as much—if not more—than the last time he had woken and done the exact same thing. He fell back to his back roughly, face twisted as the pain of a half dozen knives jabbed at him inside his chest. The cave glowed a warm red from a fire that crackled, nearby enough for Samahl to feel its warmth on his right hand, which had been wrapped in a bandage. Then, joining the crackle of firewood and the murmured roar of flames, the boy heard footsteps.

“And he wakes!” A voice called out cheerily, thick with an accent. “This is glorious news indeed!”

Samahl turned his head sharply, eyes spying the man on the other side of the flames, walking around to crouch over the laying boy.

“How are you feeling, my young friend?”

Samahl stared in bafflement at the man, an elf with tanned skin and golden hair nearly at his shoulders, a tattoo on one side of his face that the boy didn’t recognize as Dalish in origin. His clothes seemed plain, but the boy’s eyes spotted the extra thick layers of leather, the sort of armor of one quick on their feet.

“I’m—” Samahl’s voice came out hoarse and small, and the simple word left him coughing something terrible; when the coughing ceased, it left him rather breathless. “I’m okay, I think…”

“Excellent!” The man practically cheered, a grin covering his face. “I am glad to hear it!”

“Do I…” Samahl had to cut himself short before he spiraled into another vicious cycle of coughing. “Do I know you..?”

“No. I would be very surprised if you did, and perhaps a bit worried too, yes?” The man gave a slight bow from where he crouched at Samahl’s side. “My name is Zevran.”

Samahl’s eyes got huge. “Zevran? Like the one who helped stop the blight with the Hero of Ferelden?”

The elf smiled, a genuine expression. “The very same. Are you an admirer of mine, then?”

Samahl nodded zealously. “Oh yes! I-I was too little when to Blight happened to remember much, but my sister, she used to tell me the _best_ stories before bed about you and the Warden and your friends!”

“Your sister, eh? Am I to understand there are no parents?” The question was conversational, but Zevran’s tone dipped sadly.

Samahl’s face fell just a bit. “There _were_ … they left, or died… it was just my sister and I since I was three…”

“And where might your sister be, my friend?”

The boy let his eyes fall to his hands, going silent.

“Ah,” Zevran cut in knowingly, sympathetically. “I see.”

“We were at the Conclave when it… exploded…”

“And your sister, she was inside, yes?”

“We were both inside,” Samahl correctly softly.

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “And yet you survived that _huge_ explosion?”

Samahl smiled a bit wistfully. “You’re not the first person to not believe me…”

“Then tell me, my young friend: how did you survive?”

Samahl shrugged, wincing a bit as the gesture agitated his injured arm. “I can’t remember…”

“A miracle, perhaps?” Zevran offered with an amused smile.

Samahl smiled a bit back. “Must’ve been. Or a curse. Who knows?”

Zevran nodded sagely, suddenly speaking with quite a bit of zeal.

“Where are my manners? I have yet to ask your name, my friend. How rude of me!”

“It’s Sam. Well, Samahl. But call me Sam.” The small boy answered, offering his fizzling marked hand to the elf.

Zevran eyed the mark suspiciously. “I would, of course, shake your hand, my friend Sam, but it appears to be glowing with a sort of magic, you see…”

“It’s harmless, really,” Samahl smiled lopsidedly as he switched out his hands, finally shaking hands with Zevran. “Well, mostly harmless. It can close the rifts that have popped up everywhere. And it closed the Breach.”

“That was you??” Zevran’s eyes got huge. “I was wondering who climbed up there and patched up the hole in the sky. I was thinking: _they’d need a really big ladder, wouldn’t they Zevran_? And now I learn there were no ladders involved, big or otherwise!”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Samahl giggled, suddenly lapsing into a nasty fit of coughing once more.

Zevran lapsed into worried silence as he watched Samahl struggle for breath, a million questions buzzing through his head, though his focus stayed cautiously glued to the entrance of the small cave. It had begun to snow heavily again, and the wind whistled as it tore past the cave opening.

“Here,” He offered quietly, holding out a hand. “Sitting up may help the coughing.”

Samahl took the hand with what little strength he still had, slowly and very carefully hoisting himself into a sitting position. Zevran took note of the winces and the way the boy twisted to avoid pressure on his chest, recognizing it immediately. How many times had his old friend, the Warden Charlie Amell, been thrown back by a hard blow to the chest and acted the same way as young Samahl? The elf had lost count, shaking the nostalgic thoughts from his head bitterly.

“You are injured, my friend Sam,” Zevran noted aloud, catching the boy’s petrified doe-eyes at the statement. “Not to worry. I have become very good at fixing injuries. You trust me, yes?”

Samahl nodded, though internally he wasn’t completely sure.

“Good,” Zevran smiled his charming smile. “Then hand me your sash.”

Samahl found the crimson fabric tied around his waist, undoing the knot with shaky fingers and handing the fabric over to the elf. Zevran nodded appreciatively.

“Allow me to aid you in shedding the chainmail.”

Samahl hardly had a moment to protest before Zevran had already eased the heavy tunic of linked metal circlets off of the boy, leaving him in nothing but the thick hide pants that nestled overlong atop the boy’s bare feet. Bare chested, it was very clear to poor Samahl that something was very much wrong inside of him. There was a huge patch of black and blue near his midriff and wrapping around his side, the same spot where he felt knives inside him.

“What is it…?” The small elf’s voice was small and terrified.

“Bruised ribs,” Zevran mused matter-of-factly. “Nothing that won’t heal, my friend; don’t fret. Now, this may hurt just a teeny bit, but it is _very_ important we keep you wrapped together so nothing slips out of place. Understand?”

Samahl nodded, trying his best to hold still as Zevran worked quickly but gently to wrap the boy’s chest with the crimson sash, the tightness of the thing causing Samahl to draw in a sharp breath. Zevran finished, leaning back to take in his handiwork.

“There,” He nodded happily. “That should do the trick!”

“Mr. Zevran…?”

The elf chuckled. “Please, just Zevran, my friend.”

Samahl hesitated. “Zevran, can you help me find my friends…?”

The elf looked injured. “Oh woe is me! I am no longer good enough to be a friend to the mighty Sam!”

He spotted the insecurity flash in the boy’s eyes and quickly amended his words. “I jest, of course. You’re looking for your friends, you say? Would you happen to know where they have gone?”

“Sort of…” Samahl looked woefully to the entrance of the cave. “I mean, they can’t be hard to find. There a lot of them. An entire village, to be exact. Or… what’s left of it…”

“Just an entire village wandering the mountains, then?”

“It’s the Inquisition,” Samahl clarified with growing anxiousness. “I’m a part of it. I-I don’t know if they’re looking for me… they probably think I’m dead…”

“I see,” Zevran mused, all seriousness. “And if I am to find this Inquisition for you, friend, I surely must know the names of those in charge, should they don’t believe I am in the company of the infamous Sam.”

“Cassandra’s sort of in charge,” Samahl thought to himself. “Cassandra Pentaghast. Cullen, Cullen Rutherford—he’s in charge of the soldiers. Oh! And Leliana’s our spymaster; if anyone’s looking for me it’ll be her people.”

“Leliana, you say?” Zevran quirked an eyebrow out of intrigue. “Red hair? Adores the Maker? Adores shoes perhaps more?”

Samahl shrugged. “I don’t know about the last two, but she’s got red hair. She was the Left Hand of the Divine…”

Zevran put up a hand, successfully cutting Samahl short. “Say no more, my friend! If Leliana is among your friends, I should be able to smell her perfume from miles away! It’s too floral, you see. She’d benefit from undertones of something more sweet, like honey.”

Without another moment to lose, Zevran began to gather his things—swords, cloak, snacks for the road—as Samahl sat by and watched, feeling a rekindling of hope accompanied with a terrible sense of dread.

“Zevran?”

“Yeeessss…?”

“Promise me—” Samahl broke down coughing once more, though caught his breath quicker than the last time. “Promise me that even if you don’t find them, you’ll come back.”

Zevran bowed deeply. “You have my word, young Sam. I shall return you, victorious or otherwise!”

“Thank you, Zevran…” Samahl blinked rapidly, not wanting to cry but tears suddenly welling up in his eyes. “Really. You saved my life. If you hadn’t have come along, I would have frozen to death for sure…”

“I shall do it again in a heartbeat, my friend.” Zevran smiled as he headed for the cave door, throwing his hood over his face. “Farewell, Sam. Fear not! I will find your friends and deliver you to safety!”

The elf stepped out into the blizzard, becoming nothing more than a dark form in a haze of white flurries. A moment more, and he was gone entirely, swallowed up by the snow storm. Another moment, and Samahl felt very utterly and entirely alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Sorry this one took so long; I started college again, so writing isn't my top priority anymore. That being said, it's still my favorite past time, so don't think you're not going to get any more chapters! I still have big plans and I'm finding the free time to write! I've also completed my first playthrough of Dragon Age 2and am working my way through my first playthrough of Dragon Age Origins, so expect more of those characters/companions to start showing up when convenient! 
> 
> Hope you guys liked the new chapter!! :)


	13. When Nothing Else Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samahl finds himself at the makeshift campsite for those who escaped Haven. Emotions run high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in the process of being edited. Thanks for your understanding! :)

It was all one big blur, the events of the following day, or days; it was difficult to say for certain. For Samahl, consciousness was about as steadfast as the sunshine of a cloudy day. One moment, he remembered being in a cave, coughing like his lungs were filled with smoke. Another moment, it was dark and cold and people were talking; Dorian? Cassandra? Leliana, perhaps? The voices were far too distant to be certain whose they were. The next moment was quiet and colder still, soft voices whispering, something being said about hypothermia. Samahl couldn’t recall if he knew what “hypothermia” was. A town? A demon? A type of plant? He wasn’t awake long enough to find out.

“ _Da’len_.”

The word—or more accurately, the voice who spoke it—roused Samahl to open his eyes, finding himself in a peaceful, shady grove in the forests of the Arbor Wilds. In the back of his mind, the boy knew the place to be familiar, and if he tried just hard enough, the scent of flowers could be caught on the lazy breeze. The field couldn’t be far, but still too distant for the eye to see. And yet, Samahl could see it: just bursting with flowers, colorful and radiant in the sun; the dainty bobs and bows of the courting flowers as the wind whispered kindly through their petals; the unrushed drone of bees floating their way from flower to flower to enjoy each and every plant to its fullest; the bold reds, the blushing pinks, the vain purples, the bashful yellows, the graceful whites…

“ _Lethallin_ , it is but a dream.”

The boy’s gaze did not waver from the dappled forest beyond, at the edge of which he knew to be that wondrous field, at its zenith in the gentle caress of spring. “I know.”

Samahl pulled his eyes away from their longing stare and fixed them on the tall elf standing alone in the clearing with his younger friend. There was a sadness to Solas’ visage, a worry marked by furrowed brows and intense eyes, soft and sad.

“You are troubled,” Samahl remarked, his own voice taking on the melancholy he observed.

“You are very ill, _da’len_ ,” Solas replied. “You will not wake, and your body grows colder by the minute.”

“What happened, Solas..?”

The elf smiled a bit wryly despite himself. “We were hoping you might answer that question, _lethallin._ "

“Ah…” Samahl’s eyes began to drift as his voice trailed off. The forest was deep and dark and inviting. It would take only a pace or two to wander…

“Samahl.”

The boy’s attention came back to Solas.

“Wake up.”

A gasp tore fervently from Samahl’s lungs as his eyes snapped open, and quite suddenly everything was pain. The air was bitter cold and sharp like needles in his lungs. His skin crawled with hypersensitivity. The shivers racking his person had made his whole being sore from the effort to continue shaking. His blood slugged along thick and cold in his veins, pressing painfully from his chest to his extremities. All the pain was enough to pull Samahl right back into unconsciousness, but something held him awake, held him in the center of the hurt. That’s when he saw it: faces. Worried, scared, affectionate faces. Dorian’s face smiling but eyes dark, hand hovering over the boy’s forehead, holding him awake with a spell. Vivienne’s face carefully blank with only small ticks keying into her fear, hands drifting over Samahl’s form, glowing with fire, warm like the old fireplace in Haven’s tavern.

“O-Ow…”

“I know, sweet thing, I know…” Vivienne’s voice was taut with the strict control she struggled to maintain over her tone.

“You’re going to okay, Sam,” Dorian spoke quietly, a little bit viciously in his conviction. “I promise you…”

The Tevinter cast a different spell, easing the small elf to the brink of consciousness and keeping him there. Suddenly, nothing felt quite real for Samahl. The pain in his body was the pain of another. His hands, feet, torso, belly… they weren’t his own. Time became a cloud in the sky, drifting about with no care for how anyone thought it should move. Voices reached his ears but his mind took them for nothing more than sweet, soft sounds, caught up in the breeze of blissful unawareness and swept away before the words would reach his mind.

It was only a few agonizingly worrisome days before it seemed Samahl would indeed make a full recovery. All the while, the boy had been stuck inside a tent, constantly under watch and care of at least one of his mage friends. Samahl had no idea what to expect when he finally took to his legs once more and gingerly edged his way outside. The image as a whole was met with a singular word in his head: camp. Haphazardous and chaotic, yes, but still a camp. But before he could take in much more of the uprooted settlement, far too many eyes turned to stare. Samahl felt his ears burn red with discomfort, wishing more than anything he could know their thoughts. Were they angry? Were they scared? Did they think he failed them? Did he fail them..? His mind had little time to race as anxiously as it did, for Varric was immediately on his feet, covering the distance to the boy as quickly as he could and pulling the frail elf into the most sincere of hugs.

“Andraste’s tits, Sam!” He breathed, voice thick with a rush of emotion. “I thought for sure you were dead…”

There were no words. Samahl hugged the dwarf as tightly as he could, burying his face in the stocky man’s shoulder as the poor boy broke down and cried.

Samahl managed to calm down once Varric led them both back to his tent, wrapped the shivering boy in a blanket and scoured up some rations for the elf to munch on. It was easy to ignore everything outside the small, homey tent with the thick blanket weighing heavily on his shoulders like a constant hug and the plain but deliciously salty food occupying his mind.

“How ‘bout a story then?” Varric offered, still not quite his cheery self after—what was it, a day? Two days?—worrying over the fate of young Samahl.

Samahl nodded a bit shyly, stashing what was left of the rations in his cheek, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. Varric shifted to make himself more comfortable, mind working to pick out the very best story.

“Have I ever told you about The Champion of Kirkwall?”

Samahl shook his head. Varric nodded sagely.

“Rosalind Eleanor Anastasia Hawke. Just Hawke to most, Rosie to some. You remind me of her quite a bit sometimes. She wasn’t this big hero, either. One day, she just showed up at Kirkwall, just like hundreds of other Fereldens. Worked an entire year as a smuggler without pay to get her family into the city. But you know what the worst part was?”

“What..?” Samahl’s attention was captured, to say the least.

“She was a mage. An apostate. Raised outside the Circle by her apostate father with her younger brother and apostate sister. Her sister, Bethany, never made it to Kirkwall. She died defending her family from the onslaught of darkspawn. I don’t think Hawke ever really forgave herself for not being the one in Bethany’s place. But I digress. Let me tell you about the time Hawke single-handedly stopped the tide of a Qunari invasion on Kirkwall…”

The story was interrupted as someone entered the tent. Samahl and Varric both turned to stare at Zevran, stuck in something of a crouch to get into the tent, looking innocently at the both of them.

“Don’t mind me, friends. I couldn’t help but overhear the tale from outside…”

Varric smiled a bit. “Curious about the woman who spared your life, eh?”

Zevran grinned, sitting himself down beside Samahl, shrugging.

“What can I say? The Champion did indeed spare my life. Good thing too! I could have never defeated her in combat.”

“You know The Champion of Kirkwall, mister Zevran..?” Samahl’s eyes got huge.

“Oh yes, I ran into her once.” Zevran sighed nostalgically. “Beautiful woman. Wit sharper than any blade. Sense of humor to boot. What can I say? It was love at first sight. Well… more accurate, love at first ‘I’m not going to kill you.’”

Varric couldn’t help but chuckle. “Correct me if I’m wrong, charming, but isn’t that the same way you fell for the Hero of Ferelden?”

“So it is! It appears I have a type!” Even Zevran got a good chuckle out of the realization.

Samahl, however, was far more interested in Varric’s story than Zevran’s discussion of love interests, though the small boy tried to be as patient as he could.

“Varric?” He blinked at the dwarf with big puppy eyes. “Hawke was single-handedly stopping the Qunari invasion, remember..?”

“Right, right…” Varric hunkered down, eyes bright as the story took form in his head. “It was just another day in Kirkwall for Hawke. She and I had been spending the morning in The Hanged Man, drinking something stiff and reminiscing on past adventures. When she left and returned to her house in High Town, she found Guard Captain Aveline and Pirate Captain Isabela in a heated argument in the main hall. Both were very good friends to our hero, but both of them needed a favor and needed it right them and there…”

“Sorry to interrupt…”

Samahl, Varric, and Zevran all looked up to find Cullen poking his head into the tent. The Commander looked exhausted and sheepish.

“We need to see Sam…”

“I’m sure you do, curly” Varric answered bitterly. “What, have you found a new cause to sacrifice him to?”

“I swear, dwarf—!!”

“Stop this. Please…” Samahl stood up, still hugging the thick blanket around himself. “I’m coming Mister Cullen…”

The boy tip-toed past Varric and Zevran to the front of the tent, where Cullen eyed Zevran and nodded sharply.

“You too, elf. Let’s go.”

“Oh lucky me!” Zevran cheered to himself, falling in step behind Samahl as they exited the tent back into the makeshift campsite.

The boy kept his head down as he stepped into the bootprints left by Cullen as they crossed camp. He could feel the eyes watching, burning holes into him with their expectant stares. The whispers carried on the wind, too indistinct to hear the words but the tones clear as day. People were scared. People were unsure. Samahl tried to duck down into the blanket, to hide from everything. But then an arm pulled him in close, and a looming figure blocked out everything.

“It’s okay, Sam,” Cullen muttered apologetically, rubbing the boy’s arm comfortingly, eyes darting about the camp. “It’s all okay, thanks to you.”

It was a simple enough statement, but it made all the difference to the shivering elf. Everything was okay. Hearing that brought a flood of relief to poor Samahl, who felt he might break down and cry, overjoyed. Instead, he leaned into Cullen and ducked under his blanket, letting the Commander lead him blindly as the tears began to spill from his eyes.

“Sam!”

The boy had but a moment to look up from his blanket before Cassandra was crushing him in a furious hug, babbling in relief and anger all at once.

“We were so worried! You shouldn’t have done that, you shouldn’t have!! That was so brave of you Sam, but so _stupid_!! You could have died!! Thank the Maker you’re okay! Are you okay?? We weren’t so sure you were okay…!”

Cassandra’s hug broke, but was followed immediately by a hug from Josephine, her mood more straight forward than Cassandra but teary-eyed nonetheless.

“Oh Sam! You should never think you have to do something like that, not ever! Someone else could have—… it didn’t have to be—”

“ _Please_ Josie, you’re going to drown him in your tears!” Leliana shook her head sympathetically, helping to pry her friend from the small boy, her eyes training on him in concern. “Are you alright? To be up and about, I mean. You’ve been sick for days.”

“I-I feel alright, I suppose…” Samahl looked at himself as if to check his condition, a little dazed from all the sudden hugging and doting.

Leliana let slip a small smile. “Good.” Her eyes turned to Zevran and the smile disappeared.

“Never thought I’d see you again.”

Zevran bowed deeply. “I always dreamed I might see your lovely face once more, sister.”

“Keep him under heavy guard, Commander.”

“No!” Samahl cut in, brow furrowing in angry confusion. “Why would you do that!?”

Leliana looked to Samahl with a hint of impatience. “I know this man, and he can’t be trusted.”

“Mister Zevran saved my life!” Samahl defended passionately, planting himself firmly between the elf and his friends. “He’s a hero! And a member of the Inquisition, sh-should he desire to be…”

“A generous offer, my friend,” Zevran smiled endearingly. “But would your superiors honor such a proposition?”

The advisors fell silent as they looked to one another for answers. Cassandra was the first to speak up though her voice was the unanimous one.

“If Samahl wants you a part of the Inquisition, then so be it.”

“R-Really…?” Samahl’s eyes got huge in surprise, not used to being heard.

“Really,” Cullen smiled ruffling the small boy’s hair out of habit. “You have yet to steer us wrong, Sam. We ought to start hearing you out. Why not start now?”

Zevran bowed, hands folded. “I am eternally thankful, my friend Sam.”

It didn’t matter that he couldn’t stop shivering. It didn’t matter that he felt like he needed a week-long nap. It didn’t matter that his stomach felt like an empty pit. Samahl smiled, smiled more than he had in a long time. Leliana noticed, opening her arms in an offering of a hug. The boy took it without hesitation. Josephine joined the hug, then Cassandra, even Zevran with an insatiable grin, dragging Cullen in along with him. And with five pairs of arms hugging him, five friends crushing him, five voices laughing despite the situation with Haven, Samahl felt an overwhelming sense of something he hadn’t ever felt. Belonging. He _belonged_ here, with these people, with the people who cared so much. And it was so much, all at once, that Samahl couldn’t help but cry; there were no tears, as he had cried himself dry. But the sobbing was a joyous one, and the sniffling was undeniably grateful, and the hiccups were welcome. Because he _belonged_. And compared to that, nothing else matter nearly as much as before.


	14. Letters and Smiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is currently being edited. Thanks for your understanding!! :)

_Rosie,_

_I know, I know; it’s been too long since I last wrote. What can I say? I’m a busy dwarf! But honestly Hawke, I’ve been meaning to write. It just… I ended up in the middle of something. And it’s looking like I may just have to drag you into this one._

_Long story short, I’ve been tagging along with this group called The Inquisition. Seeker Pentaghast, the one I wrote about before? She put the little group together so that it could repair the hole in the sky and hopefully bring order to Thedas. So far, so good. You know me: I’m usually content to let these sort of things run their course for better or for worse, but there’s a complication. His name is Sam. He’s this elf, tiniest you’ve ever seen, hardly fourteen, sweetest boy you’ll ever meet. He got tangled up in this whole Inquisition mess; he was at the Conclave, see, and something happened that put this mysterious magical mark on his hand. It can close the rifts that have popped up everywhere, and it even managed to close the Breach with a little boost. That should have been that, and the kid should have been able to walk away from this mess. But that’s not what happened._

_Remember Corypheus? Yeah, well, apparently he’s not dead. That, and he’s managed to garner the alliance of the rebel Templars. They attacked us at Haven. To make matters worse, our Sam got a bad case of tragic hero syndrome: the kid sacrificed himself so that the Inquisition and everyone left in Haven could escape the Templar army and Corypheus. By some miracle, the kid survived his own self-sacrifice. Don’t ask me how he did it; it must have been dumb luck, or divine providence. The people in Haven have been calling him the Herald of Andraste for some time. Who knows, maybe there’s some truth to the title after all!_

_I’ll get to the point. Don’t want anyone finding me writing to you. The Seeker thinks I have no clue where you are. If she found out I knew this whole time… just make my funeral a nice affair, alright Hawke? I’m joking… mostly. Anyway, we need you Hawke. I’ve heard the Seeker and the others talking. I think they plan to name Sam as Inquisitor, the leader of this shit-show. I can’t stand by and watch this sweet boy suffocate under the pressure of authority. Look, I know it’s a lot to ask of you, Rosie, especially with recent developments. But please, for me, for this sweet little elf…._

_We’re headed north through the Frostbacks. This apostate named Solas, he’s been talking with the Seeker; seems there’s some abandoned castle in these mountains somewhere not too far off. We’ll probably be there soon. Write me back Hawke. Or have Fenris write for you. The elf’s handwriting is far better that yours; I have no clue how he could have gotten so good with a teacher like yourself!_

_Forever your friend,_

_Varric_

* * *

The raven came in the night, squawking at the dwarf’s tent. Varric, though half asleep, hurried to retrieve the letter tied around the bird’s foot and shoo it away. He didn’t dare open the letter until he was safe inside his tent, sure no was watching. Samahl and Zevran slept in a heap in the back, easy enough to tip-toe around as the dwarf found a spot by the lamp to read.

 

_Varric!!_

_It’s great to hear from you! Though the circumstances could be better, am I right? I’m writing this while I pack my things; of course I’ll come and help out with your little band of misfits! I miss bands of misfits; they’re the best. I have to be brief here; I still have to write a note to Fenris and leave before he wakes up and reminds me how much of a terrible idea this is. Keep an eye out for his angry letters, or perhaps even the grump himself huffing and puffing his way across the Frostbacks to find me and drag me home! Oh that would be exciting! It may take me a few days to reach you; it’s been raining nonstop here in Lothering and I swear the ground can swallow a horse whole it’s so soggy._

_Okay! I’ll see you soon, oh handsome dwarf! Can’t wait to meet your special friend!_

_You-Know-Who_

* * *

 

Samahl watched silently from beneath a blanket and behind a bowl of a simple porridge as Varric scrawled out some sort of note by the light of the campfire. Everyone else was asleep. But Samahl couldn’t sleep, not after the nightmare he had earlier in the night. And Varric was clearly too busy to sleep. So the boy stared, listening to the soft crackle of the dying fire and the broken scribbling of the pen on paper.

“What are you writing, Varric…?” The boy’s voice was soft as the other sounds in the night.

“A letter, to a friend,” Varric answered just as softly, eyes gazing over his work to assure himself all was neat and tidy on the paper.

“A friend?” Samahl ladled another spoonful of porridge into his mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“Yeah. A friend I think can help.”

Samahl hesitated, setting the porridge aside. “Is it… is it the Champion..?”

Varric looked across the weakening flames of the fire at the boy’s face, innocent and pale from sickness. “While the Champion _would_ be useful to have, I don’t know where she is. That’s what I told the Seeker. Understand?”

Samahl nodded, eyes drifting from the dwarf to the scenery around them, snow-capped mountains framed by the glittering starry sky. A wind picked up out of nowhere, clawing at Samahl’s exposed face and sending a rush of shivers down his spine.

“The fire’s getting low, big fella. Do you mind?”

Varric watched with a proud smile as Samahl freed a hand from his blanket cocoon and brought the fire to a roaring blaze with an effortless gesture of his hand.

“You’re getting real good at that, Sammy. Before you know it, you’ll be taking down armies with a wave of your hand.” Varric studied the boy’s worried expression, adding after a minute: “You know, this friend of mine, the one who’s _definitely_ not Hawke, she’s a mage. A damn good one at that. You might be able to learn a thing or two from her.”

There was nothing but silence from Samahl as the boy’s head drooped forward and his hair fell into his face, snapping back up after a second and bobbing back down. Varric tested the ink on his letter before stashing it in his coat pocket, standing up.

“I’m headed to bed Sammy.” Varric watched as the boy’s eyes found him in a sleepy haze. “Last I checked, Elf Charming is still loitering there, just _dying_ to be your pillow for another night.”

“Ha ha,” Samahl sighed heavily, rolling his eyes as a huge yawn escaped him. “You go ahead. I’ll just be another minute…”

Varric nodded, though unable to help but linger in his concern. “Hey, if you need anything, anything at all…”

“You’ll be the first to know, Varric.” Samahl managed a smile, no matter how drowsy. “And… well…. thank you. For everything, I guess. I—… I don’t know if I could’ve made it this far without you…”

“Don’t mention it, big fella.” Varric passed the boy on his way to his tent, pausing to sift his fingers gently through the small elf’s unruly hair, face turning somber. “But something tells me you would have survived, one way or another.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s this way…”

“Me too, Sam. Me too.”

“Goodnight, Varric. Honestly, I’ll be there in just a minute more, I promise…”

“Take your time.”

Varric continued on his way, retreating into his tent to settle down for the night. Samahl remained at the fire, hunkering down inside his blanket and staring into the flames, the warmth reaching his face and making the boy extra sleepy. But Samahl wasn’t planning to fall asleep by the fire. Instead, he stood himself up, clinging to the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. With a wave of his hand, the fire died beneath his fingertips and left the ashes frosty cold. Despite himself, Samahl let slip a grin and a small giggle, more than a little excited that he was getting the hang of his magical abilities.

With the fire dead, the camp plummeted into total darkness. The small boy stood by a minute or two, ears listening intently to the gentle rustle of pine trees and the distance howl of something or another. The darkness was no obstacle for Samahl, as his elf eyes allowed for excellent night vision, similar to the eyes of a cat or other nighttime predator. With his bearings gathered, Samahl made his way through the shallow snow, leaving camp and scouting ahead. It was a fairly quiet night compared to the handful he had spent traveling with his friends and those who survived from Haven. Most days saw fair weather with a warm sun and only a slight breeze—great weather for hiking through the mountains—but the nights never ceased to turn foul, with either a sudden blizzard or even just a nasty whipping wind preying on the campsite in the dark. Tonight, however, was as still as it could be. To most, the night would have been considered silent. But to Samahl, the night sung with some unfamiliar call, stirring up a curiosity from the deepest reaches of the boy’s head. And it wasn’t just curiosity that drove him to venture from camp; this strange calling seemed to beckon to his very soul, as it had been for the past day or two. It called in the night while the elf slept, called loud and unbearable in his dreams. The farther they traveled through the Frostbacks, the more agonizing the call grew to be. Samahl found he couldn’t sleep any longer. So instead of trying to sleep to no avail, the boy decided to find what beckoned to him so desperately.

The calling itself Samahl couldn’t possibly describe. Much like hearing your name called, but knowing no one is around to do so, it was there, catching the attention of his ears at the very edge of consciousness. Like movement just too far out of view to know it was there, like the feeling of something looming just behind you, the call was there even when it wasn’t. Though, Samahl admitted to himself, it wasn’t quite unpleasant as it was persistent, perhaps even desperate; it wasn’t quite threatening as it was pleading.

“You hear it too..?”

Samahl jumped, turning quickly to come face to face with Cole. It suddenly occurred to the boy how little he had seen of the strange young man around the camp.

“Cole…” Samahl smiled in relief. “What are you doing out here…?”

“Listening to it.” Cole turned to look north, face hidden by the shadow of his large hat. “ _Empty, hungering to feel the feet in the halls, to feel breath in the air, alive and purposeful. It was so vibrant, once, hopeful. And now it is empty, desolate, wall crumbling, ivy creeping up the stones, windows dark, years and years of dust in the hall…if only… if only…”_

Samahl couldn’t sit still, Cole’s translation of the calling having put words to the uneasiness the boy had been feeling. Instead, he clambered up ahead, the ground turning steep and rocky beneath his feet as his climbed, needing more than anything to see what it was that called to him so. His hands clung desperately to cold, jagged rock as his feet sought for the footing to drive him up the mountainside. His breath puffed out in a cloud of steam as his lungs sucked in the cold, damp air around him. Then, without warning, Samahl was pulling himself up, and his eyes fell on the sight before him. A castle, looming with a confidence and an immobility that sent chills down the young elf’s spine. But there was more than just awe for the structure. There was a stirring, a flutter of his heart, a feeling that though he had never once seen this castle before, he had always _meant_ to be there, walking its halls, feeling the stones, breathing the air.

“It has a name.” Cole had suddenly appeared beside the boy. “It says it was once called _Tarasyl'an Te'las_.”

“ _Tarasyl'an Te'las_ ,” Samahl repeated under his breath, eyes still glued in wonder. “The place where the sky was held back…”

“Or Skyhold, if you will.”

Samahl couldn’t say he was surprised that Solas had found him, but the man’s sudden interruption nearly gave the boy a heart attack.

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , _ma ghilan_ ,” Samahl turned and greeted his friend, not quite noticing the disappearance of Cole.

“Must you venture from camp in the dead of night, _da’len_?” Solas sounded more amused than upset.

Samahl shrugged, eyes returning to stare at Skyhold, illuminated by the bright moonlight. “Is that where we’re headed, Solas? How do we know it’s empty? How do we know some _shem_ noble doesn’t claim to own it from afar? How do we know we’ll be safe?”

“So many questions, _lethallin,_ ” Solas smiled genuinely as he stifled a tired yawn. “It will be alright, Samahl. You have done enough for the Inquisition for a lifetime. Let someone else worry about this for once.”

“Like who..?” Samahl turned to look at his older friend, eyes brimming with raw concern.

“Like myself,” Solas’ expression fell as he looked into the small boy’s face, realizing the sheer degree of suffering that fueled the elf’s expression.

There was a moment where Samahl didn’t seem so sure, but then the intensity of his worry faded away, and he nodded to himself, stifling a huge yawn. “Okay…”

“ _Lethallin_..?” Solas wasn’t sure it was the best time to bring up the subject that had been on his mind for days, but it seemed as good a time as ever.

“Yes Solas..?”

“These people… they look up to you. You know that, yes..?”

The boy nodded. “I don’t understand it, but yes, I know…”

“They saw you die, saw you sacrifice yourself to save them. And then they saw you return. They believe in your divine providence more now than they ever did.”

“They shouldn’t…” Samahl hugged the blanket close around him, turning around to head back to camp. “I’m nothing special…. I’m just… _me_ …”

Solas turned and walked with Samahl on their way back. “I think you’re special, _lethallin._ ”

Samahl bowed his head awkwardly. “Solas… I’m not some Herald o-or—…”

“No, not that, _da’len_. You’re very bright. And kind. And the bravest individual I’ve ever met.”

The boy’s head snapped up, looking to Solas with earnest. “Really..?”

Solas couldn’t help but smile. “Really, _lethallin_.”

A smile spread onto Samahl’s face, soft and sweet and surprised, and his cheeks flushed from the praise. “That’s very kind of you, _ma ghilan…_ ”

“The bards will sing of your modesty, Samahl,” Solas allowed himself a chuckle, finding himself with an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

Samahl beamed up at the elf. “Do you think they’ll sing about my skill with a sword, perhaps?”

“Well that depends, _da’len_. Do you plan to get better?”

Samahl burst out into a fit of giggles, his fist softly making contact with Solas’ side. “Harsh words, elf.”

“Elf?” Solas laughed breathily. “Stooping to insults then?”

“It’s not an insult,” Samahl smiled cheekily. “An elf is a proud thing to be.”

“Indeed it is, _lethallin_. Indeed it is.”

“Solas..?”

He looked down at Samahl who leaned into his side. “Yes?”

Samahl grinned up at him suddenly. “Last one to camp is a three-legged nug!”

Without warning, Samahl took off running through the snow back towards camp. Solas hesitated, watching the snow kicked up in the air glittering in the moonlight. In the blink of an eye, he was running as fast as he could, racing to beat the young elf back to the campsite. And for a moment, for just a moment, there was no tear in the Veil, there was no army of Red Templars, there was no Inquisition milling about the Frostbacks. For just a single moment, there was just Solas and Samahl, two friends cut from a very similar cloth, kicking up the powdery snow as the air tore in and out of their lungs and their legs stretched and coil to carry them back to camp. There was nothing but smiles. And Solas wished he could cling to that moment for an eternity. Then the moment passed. And life carries on.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like what you read? Want to read more? Then PLEASE go ahead and leave a comment below! Even a short little blurb does wonders to boost my confidence in this work, and helps to grant the inspiration needed to make more chapters happen!
> 
> Anything of any length, be it praise, criticism, plot ideas, or just rambling about the work will cause my heart to stop for a full second and will probably prompt me to hold a comment-conversation with you on the topic! :D


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